The shomakers holiday. Or The gentle craft VVith the humorous life of Simon Eyre, shoomaker, and Lord Maior of London. As it was acted before the Queenes most excellent Maiestie on New-yeares day at night last, by the right honourable the Earle of Notingham, Lord high Admirall of England, his seruants. Dekker, Thomas, ca. 1572-1632. 1600 Approx. 158 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 41 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2003-05 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). A20083 STC 6523 ESTC S105232 99840961 99840961 5509

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 Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A20083) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 5509) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1475-1640 ; 284:03) The shomakers holiday. Or The gentle craft VVith the humorous life of Simon Eyre, shoomaker, and Lord Maior of London. As it was acted before the Queenes most excellent Maiestie on New-yeares day at night last, by the right honourable the Earle of Notingham, Lord high Admirall of England, his seruants. Dekker, Thomas, ca. 1572-1632. [78] p. Printed by Valentine Sims dwelling at the foote of Adling hill, neere Bainards Castle, at the signe of the White Swanne, and are there to be sold, [London] : 1600. By Thomas Dekker. Partly in verse. Signatures: A-K⁴ (-A1). Running title reads: A pleasant comedie of the gentle craft. Reproduction of the original in Harvard University. Library.

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THE SHOMAKERS Holiday. OR The Gentle Craft.

With the humorous life of Simon Eyre, shoomaker, and Lord Maior of London.

As it was acted before the Queenes most excellent Maiestie on New yeares day at night last, by the right honourable the Earle of Notingham, Lord high Admirall of England, his seruants.

Printed by Valentine Sims dwelling at the foote of Adling hill, neere Bainards Castle, at the signe of the White Swanne, and are there to be sold. 1600.
To all good Fellowes, Professors of the Gentle Craft; of what degree soeuer.

KInde Gentlemen, and honest boone Companions, I present you here with a merrie conceited Comedie, called the Shoomakers Holyday, acted by my Lorde Admiralls Players this present Christmasse, before the Queenes most excellent Maiestie. For the mirth and pleasant matter, by her Highnesse graciously accepted; being indeede no way offensiue. The Argument of the play I will set downe in this Epistle: Sir Hugh Lacie Erle of Lincolne, had a yong Gentleman of his owne name, his nere kinsman, that loued the Lorde Maiors daughter of London; to preuent and crosse which loue, the Earle caused his kinsman to be sent Coronell of a companie into France: who resigned his place to another gentleman his friend, and came disguised like a Dutch Shoomaker, to the house of Symon Eyre in Tower streete, who serued the Maior and his houshold with shooes. The merriments that passed in Eyres house, his comming to be Maior of London, Lacies getting his loue, and other accidents; with two merry Three-mens songs. Take all in good worth that is well intended, for nothing is purposed but mirth, mirth lengthneth long life which, with all other blessings I heartily wish you.

Farewell.
The first Three-mans Song. O the month of Maie, the merrie month of Maie, So frolicke, so gay, and so gréene, so gréene, so gréene: O and then did I, unto my true loue say, Swate Peg, thou shalt be my Summers Quéene. NOw the Nightingale, the prettie Nightingale, The sweetest singer in all the Forrests quier: Intreates thée swéete Peggie, to heare thy true loues tale, Loe, yonder she sitteth, her breast against a brier. But O I spie the Cuckoo, the Cuckoo, the Cuckoo, Sée where she sitteth, come away my ioy: Come away I prithee, I do not like the Cuckoo Should sing where my Peggie and I kisse and toy. O the month of Maie, the merrie month of Maie, So frolike, so gay, and so gréene, so gréene, so gréene: And then did I, unto my true loue say, Swéete Peg, thou shalt be my Summers Quéene.
The Second Three-mans Song. This is to be sung at the latter end. COld's the wind, and wet's the raine, Saint Hugh be our good spéede: Ill is the weather that bringeth no gaine, Nor helpes good hearts in néede. Trowle the boll, the iolly Nut-browne boll, And here kind mate to thée: Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hughes soule, And downe it merrily. Downe a downe, hey downe a downe, Hey derie derie down a down, Close with the tenor boy: Ho well done, to me let come, King compasse gentle ioy. Trowle the boll, the Nut-browne boll, And here kind &c as often as there be men to drinke. At last when all haue drunke, this verse. Cold's the wind, and wet's the raine, Saint Hugh be our good spéede: Ill is the weather that bringeth no gaine, Nor helpes good hearts in neede.
The Prologue as it was pronounced before the Queenes Maiestie. AS wretrhes in a storme (expecting day) With trembling hands and eyes cast vp to heauen, Make Prayers the anchor of their conquerd hopes, So we (deere Goddesse) wonder of all eyes, Your meanest bassalls (through mistrust and feare, To uncke into the bottome of disgrace, By our impersit pastimes) prostrate thus On bended knees, our sailes of hope do strike, Dreading the bitter stormes of your dislike. Since then (vnhappy men) our hap is such, That to our selues our selues no help can bring, But néedes must perish, if your saint-like cares (Locking the temple where all mercy sits) Refuse the tribute of our begging tongues. Oh graunt (bright mirror of true Chastitie) From those life-breathing starres your sun-like eyes, One gratious smile: for your celestiall breath Must send vs life, or sentence vs to death.
A pleasant Comedie of the Gentle Craft. Enter Lord Maior, Lincolne. Lincolne. MY Lord Maior, you haue sundrie times Feasted my selfe, and many Courtiers more, Seldome, or neuer can we be so kind, To make requitall of your curtesie: But leauing this, I heare my cosen Lacie Is much affected to your daughter Rose. L. Maior.

True my good Lord, and she loues him so wel, That I mislike her boldnesse in the chace.

 Lincol.

Why my lord Maior, think you it then a shame, To ioyne a Lacie with an Otleys name?

 L. Maior. Too meane is my poore girle for his high birth, Poore Cittizens must not with Courtiers wed, Who will in silkes, and gay apparrell spend More in one yeare, then I am worth by farre, Therefore your honour néede not doubt my girle. Lincolne. Take héede my Lord, aduise you what you do, A berier vnthrist liues not in the world, Then is my cosen, for Ile tel you what, Tis now almost a yeare since he requested To trauell countries for experience, I furnisht him with coyne, billes of exchange, Letters of credite, men to waite on him, Solicited my friends in Italie Well to respect him: but to sée the end: Scant had he iornied through halfe Germanie, But all his coyne was spent, his men cast off, His billes imbezeld, and my iolly coze, Asham'd to shew his bankerupt presence here, Became a Shoomaker in Wittenberg, A goodly science for a gentleman Of such discent: now iudge the rest by this. Suppose your daughter haue a thousand pound, He did consume me more in one halfe yeare, And make him heyre to all the wealth you haue, One twelue moneth's rioting wil waste it all, Then seeke (my Lord) some honest Cittizen To wed your daughter to. L. Maior. I thanke your Lordship, Wel Fore, I understand your subtiltie, As for your nephew, let your lordships eie But watch his actions, and you néede not feare, For I haue my daughter farre enough, And yet your cosen Rowland might do well Now he hath learn'd an occupation, And yet I scorne to call him sonne in law. Lincolne. I but I haue a better trade for him, I thanke his grace he hath appointed him, Chiefe colonell of all those companies Mustred in London, and the shires about, To serue his highnesse in those warres of France: Sée where he comes: Louel what newes with you? Enter Louell, Lacie, and Askew. Louell. My Lord of Lincolne, tis his highnesse will, That presently your cosen ship for France With all his powers, he would not for a million, But they should land at Déepe within foure daies. Linc. Goe certifie his grace it shall be done: Exit Louell. Now cosen Lacie, in what forwardnesse Are all your companies? Lacie. All well prepar'd, The men of Hartfordshire lie at Mile end, Suffolke, and Essex, traine in Tuttle fields, The Londoners, and those of Middlesex, All gallantly prepar'd in Finsbury, With frolike spirits, long for their parting hower. L. Maior They haue their imprest, coates, and furniture, And if it please your cosen Lacie come To the Guild Hall, he shall receiue his pay, And twentie pounds besides my brethren Will fréely giue him, to approue our loues We beare vnto my Lord your vncle here. Lacie.

I thanke your honour.

 Lincolne.

Thankes my good Lord Maior.

 L. Ma.

At the Guild Hal we wil expect your comming, Exit.

Lincolne. To approue your loues to me? no subtiltie Nephew: that twentie pound he doth bestow, For ioy to rid you from his daughter Rose: But cosens both, now here are none but friends, I would not haue you cast an amorous eie Upon so meane a proiect, as the loue Of a gay wanton painted cittizen, I know this churle, even in the height of scorne, Doth hate the mixture of his bloud with thine, I pray thée do thou so, remember coze, What honourable fortunes wayt on thée, Increase the kings loue which so brightly shines, And gilds thy hopes, I haue no heire but thée: And yet not thée, if with a wayward spirit, Thou start from the true byas of my loue. Lacie. My Lord, I will (for honor (not desire Of land or liuings) or to be your heire) So guide my actions in pursuit of France, As shall adde glorie to the Lacies name. Lincolne. Coze, for those words heres thirtie Portugues And Nephew Askew, there's a few for you, Faire Honour in her loftrest eminence Staies in France for you till you fetch her thence, Then Nephewes, clap swift wings on your dissignes, Be gone, be gone, make haste to the Guild Hall, There presently Ile méete you, do not stay, Where honour becomes, shame attends delay. Exit. Askew.

How gladly would your vncle haue you gone?

 Lacie. True coze, but Ile ore-reach his policies, I haue some serious businesse for thrée dayes, Which nothing but my presence can dispatch, You therefore cosen with the companies Shall hasse to Douer, there Ile méete with you, Or if I stay past my prefixed time, Away for France, weele meete in Normandie, The twentie pounds my Lord Maior giues to me You shall receiue, and these ten portugues, Part of mine vncles thirtie, gentle coze, Haue care to our great charge, I know your wisedome Hath tride it selfe in higher consequence. Askew. Coze, al my selfe am yours, yet haue this care, To lodge in London with al secresie, Our vncle Lincolne hath (besides his owne) Many a iealous eie, that in your face Stares onely to watch meanes for your disgrace. Lacie.

Stay cosen, who be these?

 Enter Symon Eyre, his wife, Hodge, Firk, Iane, & Rafe with a peece. Eyre.

Leaue whining, leaue whining, away with this whimpring, this pewling, these blubbring teares, and these wet eies, Ile get thy husband discharg'd, I warrant thee swéete Iane: go to.

 Hodge.

Master, here be the captaines.

 Eyre.

Peace Hodge, husht ye knaue, husht.

 Firke

Here be the caualiers, and the coronels, maister.

 Eyre.

Peace Firke, peace my fine Firke, stand by with your pishery pasherie, away, I am a man of the best presence, Ile speake to them and they were Popes, gentlemen, captaines, colonels, commanders: braue men, braue leaders, may it please you to giue me audience, I am Simon Eyre, the mad Shoomaster of Towerstréete, this wench with the mealy mouth that wil neuer tire, is my wife I can tel you, heres Hodge my man, and my foreman, heres Firke my fine firking iourneyman, and this is blubbered Iane, al we come to be suters for this honest Rafe kéepe him at home, and as I am a true shoomaker, and a gentleman of the Gentle Craft, buy spurs your self, and Ile find ye bootes these seuen yéeres.

 Wife.

Seuen yeares husband?

 Eyre.

Peace Midriffe, peace, I know what I do, peace.

 Firk.

Truly master cormorant, you shal do God good seruice to let Rafe and his wife stay together, shées a yong new married woman, if you take her husband away from her a night, you vndoo her, she may beg in the day time, for hées as good a workman at a pricke & an awle, as any is in our trade.

 Iane.

O let him stay, else I shal be vndone.

 Firke.

I truly, she shal be laid atone side like a paire of old shooes else, and be occupied for no vse.

 Lacie. Truly my friends, it lies not in my power, The Londoners are prest, paide, and set forth By the Lord Maior, I cannot change a man. Hodge.

Why then you were as good be a corporall, as a colonel, if you cannot discharge one good fellow, and I tell you true, I thinke you doe more then you can answere, to presie a man within a yeare and a day of his mariage.

 Eyre.

Wel said melancholy Hodge, gramercy my fine foreman.

 Wife.

Truly gentlemen, it were il done, for such as you, to stand so stiffely against a poore yong wife: considering her case, she is new married, but let that passe: I pray deale not roughly with her, her husband is a yong man and but newly entred, but let that passe.

 Eyre.

Away with your pisherie pasherie, your pols and your edipolls, peace Midaffe, silence Cisly Bumtrincket, let your head speake.

 Firke.

Yea and the hornes too, master.

 Eyre.

Too soone, my fine Firk, too soone: peace scoundrels, see you this man? Captaines, you will not release him, wel let him go, hée's a proper shot, let him vanish, peace Iane, drie vp thy teares, theile make his powder darkish, take him braue men, Hector of Troy was an hackney to him, Hercules and Termagant scoundrelles, Prince Arthurs Round table, by the Lord of Lutgate, nere fed such a tall, such a dapper swordman: by the life of Pharo, a braue resolute swordman, peace Iane, I say no more, mad knaues.

 Firk.

Sée, see Hodge, how my maister raues in commendation of Rafe.

 Hodge.

Raph, thart a gull by this hand, and thou goest.

 Askew. I am glad (good master Ayre) it is my hap To méete so resolute a souldiour. Trust me, for your report, and loue to him, A common flight regard shall not respect him. Lacie.

Is thy name Raph?

 Raph.

Yes sir.

 Lacie. Giue me thy hand, Thou shalt not want, as I am a gentleman: Woman, be patient, God (no doubt) wil send Thy husband safe againe, but he must go, His countries quarrel sayes, it shall be so. Hodge

Thart a gull by my stirrop, if thou dost not goe, I wil not haue thée strike thy gimblet into these weake bessels, pricke thine enemies Rafe. Enter Dodger.

Dodger My lord, your vncle on the Tower hill, Stayes with the lord Mayor, and the Aldermen, And doth request you with al spéede you may To hasten thither. exit Dodger. Askew

Cosin, lets go.

 Lacy , Dodger runne you before, tel them we come, This Dodger is mine vncles parasite, The arrantst varlet that e re breathd on earth, He sets more discord in a noble house, By one daies broching of his pickethanke fales, Then can be salu'd againe in twentie yeares, And he (I feare) shall go with vs to France, To prie into our actions. Askew. Therefore coze, It shall behooue you to be circumspect, Lacy.

Feare not good cosen: Raph, hie to your colours.

 Raph. I must, because theres no remedie, But gentle maister and my louing dame, As you haue alwaies béene a friend to me, So in mine absence thinke vpon my wife. Iane.

Alas my Raph.

 Wife.

She cannot speake for wéeping.

 Eyre.

Peace you crackt groates, you mustard tokens, disquiet not the braue souldier, goe thy waies Raph.

 Iane.

I I, you bid him go, what shal I do when he is gone?

 Firk.

Why be doing with me, or my felow Hodge, be not idle.

 Eyre.

Let me sée thy hand Iane, this fine hand, this white hand, these prettie fingers must spin, must card, must worke, worke you bembast cotten-candle-queane, worke for your liuing with a pox to you: hold thée Raph, heres fiue sixpences for thée, fight for the honour of the Gentle Craft, for the gentlemen Shoomakers, the couragious Cordwainers, the flower of S. Martins, the mad knaues of Bedlem, Fléetstréete, Towerstréete, and white Chappell, cracke me the crownes of the French knaues, a pore on them, cracke them, fight, by the lord of Ludgate, fight my fine boy.

 Firke.

Here Rafe, here's thrée two pences, two carry into France, the third shal wash our soules at parting (for sorrow is drie) for my sake, Firke the Basa mon cues.

Hodge.

Raph, I am heauy at parting, but heres a shilling for thée, God send thée to cramme thy slops with French crownes, and thy enemies bellies with bullets.

 Raph. I thanke you maister, and I thanke you all: Now gentle wife, my louing louely Iane, Rich men at parting, giue their wiues rich gifts, Jewels and rings, to grace their lillie hands, Thou know'st our trade makes rings for womens héeles: Here take this paire of shooes cut out by Hodge, Sticht by my fellow Firke, seam'd by my selfe, Made vp and pinckt, with letters for thy name, Weare them my déere Iane, for thy husbands sake, And euerie morning when thou pull'st them on, Remember me, and pray for my returne, Make much of them, for I have made them so, That I can know them from a thousand mo. Sound drumme, enter Lord Maior, Lincolne, Lacy, Askew, Dodger, and souldiers, They passe ouer the stage, Rafe falles in amongest them, Firke and the rest cry farewel, &c. and so Exeunt. Enter Rose alone making a Garland. Here sit thou downe vpon this flowry banke, And make a garland for thy Lacies head, These pinkes, these roses, and these violets, These blushing gilliflowers, these marigoldes, The faire embrodery of his coronet, Carry not halfe such beauty in their chéekes, As the swéete countnaunce of my Lacy doth. O my most vnkinde father! O my starres! Why lowrde you so at my natiuity, To make me loue, yet liue robd of my loue? Here as a théefe am I imprisoned (For my déere Lacies sake) within those walles, Which by my fathers cost were builded vp For better purposes: here must I languish For him that doth as much lament (I know) enter Sibil. Mine absence, as for him I pine in woe. Sibil

Good morrow yong Mistris, I am sure you make that garland for me, against I shall be Lady of the Haruest.

 Rose

Sibil, what news at London?

 Sibil

Noue but good: my lord Mayor your father, and maister Philpot your vncle, and maister Scot your coosin, and mistris Frigbottom by Doctors Commons, doe all (by my troth) send you most hearty commendations.

 Rose

Did Lacy send kind gréetings to his loue?

 Sibil

O yes, out of cry, by my troth, I scant knew him, here a wore scarffe, and here a scarfe, here a bunch of fethers, and here pretious stones and iewells, and a paire of garters: O monstrous like one of our yellow silke curtains, at home here in Old-ford house, here in maister Bellymounts chamber, I stoode at our doore in Cornehill, lookt at him, he at me indeed, spake to him, but he not to me, not a word, mary guy thought I with a wanion, he passt by me as prowde, mary foh, are you growne humorous thought I? and so shut the doore, and in I came.

 Rose O Sibill, how dest thou my Lacy wrong? My Rowland is as gentle as a lambe, No doue was euer halfe so milde as he. Sibil

Milde? yea, as a bushel of stampt crabs, he lookt vpon me as sowre as veriuice: goe thy wayes thought I, thou maist be much in my gaskins, but nothing in my neatherstockes: this is your fault mistris, to loue him that loues not you, he thinkes scorne to do as he's done to, but if I were as you, Ide cry, go by Ieronimo, go by, Ide set mine olde debts against my new driblets, and the hares foot against the goose giblets, for if euer I sigh when sléepe I shoulde take, pray God I may loose my mayden-head when I wake.

 Rose

Will my loue leaue me then and go to France?

 Sibill

I knowe not that, but I am sure I see him stalke before the souldiers, by my troth he is a propper man, but he is proper that proper doth, let him goe snicke-vp yong mistris.

 Rose Get thée to London, and learne perfectly, Whether my Lacy go to France, or no: Do this, and I wil giue thée for thy paines, My cambricke apron, and my romish gloues, My purple stockings, and a stomacher, Say, wilt thou do this Sibil for my sake? Sibil

Wil I quoth a? at whose suite? by my troth yes, Ile go, a cambricke apron, gloues, a paire of purple stockings, and a stomacher, Ile sweat in purple mistris for you, ile take any thing that comes a Gods name, O rich, a Cambricke apron; faith then haue at vp tailes all, Ile go, Iiggy, Ieggy to London, and be here in a trice yong mistris. Exit.

Rose. Do so good Sibill, meane time wretched I Will sit and sigh for his lost companie. Exit. Enter Rowland Lacy like a Dutch Shooe-maker. Lacy. How many shapes haue gods and kings deuisde, Thereby to compasse their desired loues? It is no shame for Rowland Lacy then, To clothe his cunning with the Gentle Craft, That thus disguisde, I may vnknowne possesse, The onely happie presence of my Rose: For her haue I forsooke my charge in France, Incurd the Kings displeasure, and stir'd vp Rough hatred in mine vncle Lincolnes brest: O loue, how powerfull art thou, that canst change High birth to barenesse, and a noble mind, To the meane semblance of a shooemaker? But thus it must be: for her cruell father, Hating the single vnion of our soules, Hath secretly conueyd my Rose from London, To barre me of her presence, but I trust Fortune and this disguise will furder me Once more to view her beautie, gaine her sight. Here in Towerstréete, with Ayre the shooe-maker, Meane I a while to worke, I know the trade, I learn't it when I was in Wittenberge: Then cheere thy hoping sprites, be not dismaide, Thou canst not want, do fortune what she can, The Gentle Craft is liuing for a man. exit. Enter Eyre making himselfe readie. Eyre.

Where be these boyes, these girles, these drabbes, these scoundrels, they wallow in the fat brewisse of my boū tie, and I locke vp the crums of my table, yet wil not rise to see my walkes cleansed: come out you powder-beefe-queanes, what Nan, what Madge-mumble-crust, come out you fatte Midriffe-swag, belly-whores, and swéepe me these kennels, that the noysome stench offende not the nose of my neighbours: what Firke I say, what Hodge? open my shop windowes, what Firke I say. Enter Firke.

Firke.

O master, ist you that speake bandog and bedlam this morning, I was in a dreame, and muzed what madde man was got into the streete so earlie, haue you drunke this morning that your throate is so cleere?

 Eyre.

Ah well saide Firke, well said Firke, to worke my fine knaue, to worke, wash thy face, and thou t be more blest.

 Firke.

Let them wash my face that will eate it, good maister send for a sowce wife, if youle haue my face cleaner.

 enter Hodge. Eyre.

Away slouen, auaunt scoundrell, good morrow Hodge, good morrow my fine foreman.

 Hodge.

O maister, good morrow, yare an earlie stirrer, heeres a faire morning, good morrow Firke, I could haue slept this howre, héeres a braue day towards.

 Eyre.

O haste to worke my fine foreman, haste to worke.

 Firke.

Maister I am drie as dust, to heare my fellow Roger talke of faire weather, let vs pray for good leather, and let clownes and plowboyes, and those that worke in the fieldes, pray for braue dayes, wee worke in a drie shop, what care I if it raine? enter Eyres wife.

Eyre.

How now dame Margery, can you sée to rise? trip and go, call vp the drabs your maides.

 Wife.

See to rise? I hope tis time inough, tis earlie inough for any woman to be séene abroad, I maruaile how manie wiues in Towerstréet are vp so soon? Gods me, tis not noone, heres a yawling.

 Eyre.

Peace Margerie, peace, wheres Cisty Bumtrinket your maide? she has a priuie fault, she fartes in her sleepe, call the queane vp, if my men want shooethréed, ile swinge her in a stirrop.

 Firke.

Yet thats but a drie beating, heres still a signe of drought. enter Lacy singing.

Lacy. Der was een bore van Gelderland, Frolick ū byen, He was als dronck he cold nyet stand, vpsolce se byen, Tap eens de canneken drincke scheue mannekin. Firke.

Maister, for my life yonders a brother of the Gentle Craft, if he beare not saint Hughes bones, Ile forfeit my bones, hées some vplandish workman, hire him good master, that I may learne some gibble, gabble, twill make vs worke the faster.

 Eyre.

Peace Firke, a hard world, let him passe, let him vanish, we haue iourneymen enow, peace my fine Firke.

 Wife.

Nay, nay, y are best follow your mans councell, you shal sée what wil come on t: we haue not men enow, but we must entertaine euerie butter-boxe: but let that passe.

 Hodge.

Dame, fore God if my maister follow your counsell, héele consume little béefe, he shal be glad of men and hee can catch them.

 Firke.

I that he shall.

 Hodge.

Fore God a proper man, and I warrant a fine workman: maister farewell, dame adew, if such a man as he cannot find worke, Hodge is not for you. offer to goe.

Eyre.

Stay my fine Hodge.

 Firke.

Faith, and your foreman goe, dame you must take a iourney to séeke a new iorneyman, if Roger remoue, Firke followes, if S. Hughs bones shall not be set a worke, I may pricke mine awle in the wals, and goe play: fare ye wel master, God buy dame.

 Eyre.

Carrie my fine Hodge, my briske foreman, stay Firke, peace pudding broath, by the lord of Ludgate I loue my men as my life, peace you gallimafrie, Hodge if he want worke Ile hire him, one of you to him, stay, he comes to vs.

 Lacie.

Eoeden dach meester, ende v vro oak.

 Firke.

Nayis if I should speake after him without drinking, I shuld choke, and you frind Oake are you of the Gentle Craft?

 Lacie.

Yaw yaw, Ik bin den skomawker.

 Firke.

Den skomaker quoth a, and heark you skomaker, haue you al your tooles, a good rubbing pinne, a good stopper, a good dresser, your foure sorts of awles and your two balles of waxe, your paring knife, your hand and thumb-leathers, and good S. Hughs bones to smooth vp your worke.

 Lacie.

Yaw yaw be niet vor veard, Ik hab all de dingen, voour mack shoes groot and cleane.

 Firke.

Ha ha good maister hire him, héele make me laugh so that I shal worke more in mirth, then I can in earnest.

 Eyre.

I care ye friend, haue ye any skill in the mistery of Cordwainers?

 Lacie.

Ik wéet niet wat yow seg ich vestaw you niet.

 Firke.

Why thus man, Ich verste v niet quoth a.

 Lacie.

Yaw, yaw, yaw, ick can dat wel doen.

 Firke.

Yaw, yaw, he speakes yawing like a Iacke daw, that gapes to be fed with chéese curdes, O héele giue a villanous pul at a Can of double Béere, but Hodge and I haue the vantage, we must drinke first, because wee are the eldest iourneyman.

 Eyre.

What is thy name?

 Lacy.

Hans, Hans, Meulter.

 Eyre.

Giue me thy hand, th' art welcome, Hodge entertaine him, Fyrk bid him welcome, come Hans, runne wife, bid your maids, your Crullibubs, make readie my fine mens breakefasts: to him Hodge.

 Hodge.

Hans, th'art welcome, vse thy selfe friendly, for we are good fellowes, if not thou shalt be fought with, wert thou bigger then a Giant.

 Fyrk.

Yea and drunke with, wert thou Gargantua, my maister keepes no cowards, I tel thee: hee, boy, bring him an heele-blocke, heers a new iourneyman.

 Enter boy. Lacy.

Oich wersto, you Ich moet een halue dossen Cans betaelen: here boy nempt dis skilling, tap eens fréelicke.

 Exit boy. Eyre.

Quicke snipper snapper, away Fyrk, scowre thy throate, thou shalt wash it with Casulian licour, come my last of the fiues, giue me a Can, haue to Enter boy. thée Hans, here Hodge, here Fyrk, drinke you mad Gréeks, and worke like true Troians, and pray for Simon Eyre the Shoomaker: here Hans, and th'art welcome.

 Fyrk.

Lo dame you would haue lost a good fellow that wil teach vs to laugh, this béere came hopping in wel.

 Wife.

Simon it is almost seuen.

 Eyre.

Is't so dame clapper dudgeon, is't seuen a clocke, and my mens breakefast not readie? trip and goe yow sowst cunger, away, come you madde Hiperboreans, follow me Hodge, follow me Hans, come after my fine Fyrk, to worke, to worke a while and then to breakfast. Exit.

Fyrk.

Soft, yaw, yaw, good Hans, though my master haue no more wit, but to call you afore mee, I am not so foolish to go behind you, I being the elder iourneyman. exeunt.

Hollowing within. Enter Warner, and Hammon, like hunters. Hammon. Cosen, beate euery brake, the game's not far, This may with winged féete he fled from death, Whilst the pursuing hounds senting his steps: Find out his high way to destruction, Besides, the millers boy told me euen now, He saw him take saile, and he hallowed him, Affirming him so embost, That long he could not hold. Warner. If it be so, Tis best we trace these meddowes by old Ford. A noise of hunters within, enter a boy. Hammon.

How now boy, wheres the déere? speak, sawst thou him?

 Boy.

O, yea I saw him scape through a hedge, and then ouer a ditch, then at my Lord Maiors pale, ouer he skipt me and in he went me, and holla the hunters cride, and there boy there boy, but there he is a mine honestie.

 Ham. Boy God amerey, cosen lets away, I hope we shal find better sport to day. exeunt. Hunting within, enter Rose, and Sibill. Rose.

Why Sibill wilt thou proue a forrester?

 Sibill.

Upon some no, forrester, go by: no faith mistris, the deere came running into the barne through the orchard, and ouer the pale, I wot wel, I lookt as pale as a new chéese to sée him, but whip saies goodman pinne-close, vp with his fiaile, and our Nicke with a prong, and downe he fel, and they vpon him, and I vpon them, by my troth we had such sport, and in the end we ended him, his throate we cut, flead him, vnhornd him, and my lord Maior shal eat of him anon when he comes.

 Hornes sound within. Rose. Heark heark, the hunters come, y'are best take héed Theyle haue a saying to you for this deede. Enter Hammon, Warner, huntsmen, and boy. Ham.

God saue you faire ladies.

 Sibil.

Ladies, O grosse!

 War.

Came not a bucke this way?

 Rose.

No, but two Does.

 Ham.

And which way went they? faith wéel hunt at those

 Sibill.

At those? vpon some no: when, can you tell?

 War.

Upon some, I.

 Sibill.

Good Lord!

 War.

Wounds then farewell.

 Ham.

Boy, which way went he?

 Boy.

This way sir he ranne.

 Ham. This way he ranne indéede, faire mistris Rose, Our game was lately in your orchard séene. War.

Can you aduise which way he tooke his flight?

 Sibil.

Followe your nose, his hornes will guide you right.

 VVar.

Thart a mad wench.

 Sibill.

O rich!

 Rose. Trust me, not I, It is not like the wild forrest déere, Would come so neare to places of resort, You are deceiu'd, he fled some other way. VVar.

Which way my suger-candie, can you shew?

 Sibill.

Come vp good honnisops, vpon some, no.

 Rose.

Why doe you stay, and not pursue your game?

 Sibill.

Ile hold my life their hunting nags be lame.

 Ham.

A déere, more deere is found within this place.

 Rose.

But not the déere (sir) which you had in chace.

 Ham.

I chac'd the déere, but this déere chaceth me.

 Rose. The strangest hunting that euer I see, But wheres your parke? She offers to goe away. Ham.

Tis here: O stay.

 Rose.

Impale me, and then I will not stray.

 VVar

They wrangle wench, we are more kind then they

 Sibill.

What kind of hart is that (déere hart) you séeke?

 War.

A hart, deare hart.

 Sibil.

Who euer saw the like?

 Rose.

To loose your heart, is't possible you can?

 Ham.

My heart is lost.

 Rose.

Alacke good gentleman.

 Ham.

This poore lost hart would I with you might find.

 Rose.

You by such lucke might proue your hart a hind.

 Ham.

Why Lucke had hornes, so haue I heard some say.

 Rose.

Now God and't be his wil send Luck into your way.

 Enter L. Maior, and seruants. L. Mai.

What M. Hammon, welcome to old Ford.

 Sibill.

Gods pittikins, hands off sir, héers my Lord.

 L. Maior.

I heare you had ill lucke, and lost your game.

 Hammon.

Tis true my Lord.

 L. Maior. I am sorie for the same. What gentleman is this? Hammon.

My brother in law.

 L. Maior. Y are welcome both, sith Fortune offers you Into my hands, you shal not part from hence, Until you haue refresht yout wearied limmes: Go Sibel couer the boord, you shal be guest To no good cheare, but euen a hunters feast. Hammon. I thanke your Lordship: cosen, on my life For our lost venisou, I shal find a wife. exeunt. L. Maior. In gentlemen, Ile not be absent long. This Hammon is a proper gentleman, A citizen by birth, fairely allide, How fit an husband were he for my girle? Wel, I wil in, and do the best I can, To match my daughter to this gentléman. exit. Enter Lacie, Skipper, Hodge, and Firke. Skip.

Ick sal yow wat seggen Hans, dis skip dat comen from Candy is al wol, by gots sacrament, van sugar, ciuet, almonds, cambrick, end alle dingen towsand towsand ding, nempt it Hans, nempt it voz v meester, daer be de bils van laden, your meester Simon Eyre sal hae good copen, wat seggen yow Hans?

 Firk.

Wat seggen de reggen de copen, slopen, laugh Hodge laugh.

 Lacie.

Mine lieuer broder Firk, bringt meester Eyre lot den signe vn swannekin, daer sal yow finde dis skipper end me, wat seggen yow broder Firk? doot it Hodge, come skipper. exeunt.

Firke.

Bring him qd. you, héers no knauerie, to bring me master to buy a ship, worth the lading of 2 or 3 hūdred thousand pounds, alas thats nothing, a trifle, a bable Hodge.

 Hod

The truth is Firk, that the marchant owner of the ship dares not shew his head, and therefore this skipper that deales for him, for the loue he beares to Hans, offers my master Eyre a bargaine in the commodities, he shal haue a reasonable day of payment, he may sel the wares by that time, and be an huge gainer himselfe.

 Firk.

Yea, but can my fellow Hans lend my master twentie porpentines as an earnest pennie.

 Hodge.

Portegues thou wouldst say, here they be Firke, heark, they gingle in my pocket like S. Mary Queries bels.

 enter Eyre and his wife. Firke.

Mum, here comes my dame and my maister, shéele scold on my life, for loytering this Monday, but al's one, let them al say what they can, Monday's our holyday.

 Wife. You sing sir sauce, but I beshrew your heart, I feare for this your singing we shal smart. Firke.

Smart for me dame, why dame, why?

 Hodg.

Maister I hope yowle not suffer my dame to take downe your iourneymen.

 Firk.

If she take me downe, Ile take her vp, yea and take her downe too, a button, hole lower.

 Eyre.

Peace Firke, not I Hodge, by the life of Pharao, by the Lord of Ludgate, by this beard, euery haire whereof I valew at a kings ransome, shee shal not meddle with you, peace you bumbast-cotten-candle Queane, away queene of Clubs, quarrel not with me and my men, with me and my fine Firke, Ile firke you if you do.

 Wife.

Yea, yea man, you may vse me as you please: but let that passe.

 Eyre.

Let it passe, let it vanish away: peace, am I not Simon Eyre? are not these my braue men? braue shoomakers, all gentlemen of the gentle craft? prince am I none, yet am I noblie borne, as béeing the sole sonne of a Shoomaker, away rubbish, vanish, melt, melt like kitchin stuffe.

 Wife.

Yea, yea, tis wel, I must be cald rubbish, kitchin stuffe, for a sort of knaues.

 Firke.

Nay dame, you shall not wéepe and waile in woe for me: master Ile stay no longer, here's a vennentorie of my shop tooles: adue master, Hodge farewel.

 Hodge.

Nay stay Firke, thou shalt not go alone.

 Wife.

I pray let them goe, there be mo maides then mawkin, more men then Hodge, and more fooles then Firke.

 Firke.

Fooles? nailes if I tarry nowe, I would my guts might be turnd to shoo-thread.

 Hodge.

And if I stay, I pray God I may be turnd to a Turke, and set in Finsbury for boyes to shoot at: come Firk.

 Eyre.

Stay my fine knaues, you armes of my trade, you pillars of my professiō. What, shal a tittle tattles words make you forsake Simon Eyre? auaunt kitchinstuffe, rip you brown bread tannikin, out of my sight, moue me not, haue not I tane you from selling tripes in Eastcheape, and set you in my shop, and made you haile fellowe with Simon Eyre the shoomaker? and now do you deale thus with my Iourneymen? Looke you powder béefe queane on the face of Hodge, heers a face for a Lord.

 Firke.

And heers a face for any Lady in Christendome.

 Eyre.

Rip you chitterling, auaunt boy, bid the tapster of the Bores head fil me a doozen Cannes of béere for my iourneymen.

 Firke.

A doozen Cans? O braue, Hodge now Ile stay.

 Eyre.

And the knaue fils any more then two, he payes for them: a doozen Cans of béere for my iourneymen, heare you mad Mesopotamians, wash your liuers with this liquour, where be the odde ten? no more Madge, no more, wel saide, drinke & to work: what worke dost thou Hodge? what work?

 Hodge.

I am a making a paire of shooes for my Lord Maiors daughter, mistresse Rose.

 Firke.

And I a paire of shooes for Sybill my Lords maid, I deale with her.

 Eyre.

Sybil? fie, defile not thy fine workemanly fingers with the féete of Kitchinstuffe, and basting ladies, Ladies of the Court, fine Ladies, my lads, commit their feete to our apparelling, put grosse worke to Hans; yarke and seame, yarke and seame.

 Fyrk.

For yarking & seaming let me alone, & I come toot.

 Hodge.

Wel maister, al this is from the bias, do you remember the ship my fellow Hans told you of, the Skipper and he are both drinking at the swan? here be the Portigues to giue earnest, if you go through with it, you can not choose but be a Lord at least.

 Firke.

Nay dame, if my master prone not a Lord, and you a Ladie, hang me.

 Wife.

Yea like inough, if you may loiter and tipple thus.

 Firke.

Tipple dame? no, we haue béene bargaining with Skellum Skanderbag: can you Dutch spreaken for a ship of silke Cipresse, laden with sugar Candie.

 Enter the boy with a veluet coate, and an Aldermans gowne. Ayre puts it on. Eire.

Peace Firk, silence tittle tattle: Hodge, Ile go through with it, héers a seale ring, and I haue sent for a garded gown, and a damask Casock, see where it comes, looke here Maggy, help me Firk, apparreline Hodge, silke and satten you mad Philistines, silke and satten.

 Firk.

Ha, ha, my maister wil be as proud as a dogge in a dublet, al in beaten damaske and veluet.

 Eyre.

Softly Firke, for rearing of the nap, and wearing thread-bare my garments: how dost thou like mee Firke? how do I looke, my fine Hodge?

 Hodge.

Why now you looke like your selfmaster, I warrant you, ther's few in the city, but wil giue you the wal, and come vpon you with the right worshipful.

 Firke.

Nailes my master lookes like a thred-bare cloake new turn'd, and drest: Lord, Lord, to see what good raiment both? dame, dame, are you not enamoured?

 Eyre.

How saist thou Maggy, am I not brisk? am I not fine?

 Wife.

Fine? by my troth sweet hart very fine: by my troth I neuer likte thée so wel in my life swéete heart. But let that passe, I warrant there be many women in the citie haue not such handsome husbands, but only for their apparell, but let that passe too. Enter Hans and Skipper.

Hans.

Godden day mester, dis be de skipper dat heb de skip van marchandice de commodity ben good, nempt it master, nempt it.

 Aire.

Godamercy Hans, welcome skipper, where lies this ship of marchandice?

 Skip.

De skip ben in rouere: dor be van Sugar, Cyuet, Almonds, Cambricke, and a towsand towsand tings, gotz sacrament, nempt it mester, yo sal heb good copen.

 Firk.

To him maister, O swéete maister, O swéet wares, prunes, almons, suger-candy, carrat roots, turnups, O braue fatting meate, let not a man buye a nutmeg but your selfe.

 Eyre.

Peace Firke, come Skipper, Ile go abroade with you, Hans haue you made him drinke?

 Skip.

Yaw, yaw, it heb veale ge drunck.

 Eyre.

Come Hans follow me: Skipper, thou shalt haue my countenance in the Cittie. Exeunt.

Firke.

Yaw heb veale ge drunck, quoth a: they may well be called butter-boxes, when they drinke fat veale, and thick beare too: but come dame, I hope you'le chide vs no more.

 VVife.

No faith Firke, no perdy Hodge, I do féele honour créepe vpon me, and which is more, a certaine rising in my flesh, but let that passe.

 Firke.

Rising in your flesh do you feele say you? I you may be with childe, but why should not my maister féele a rising in his flesh, hauing a gowne and a gold ring on, but you are such a shrew, youl'e soone pull him downe.

 VVi.

Ha, ha, prethée peace, thou mak'st my worshippe laugh, but let that passe: come Ile go in Hodge, prethée goe before me, Firke follow me.

 Fi.

Firke doth follow, Hodge passe out in state. Exeunt.

Enter Lincolne and Dodger. Li.

How now good Dodger, whats the newes in France?

 Dodger. My Lord, vpon the eightéene day of May, The French and English were preparde to fight, Each side with eager furie gaue the signe Of a most hot encounter, fiue long howres Both armies fought together: at the length, The lot of victorie fel on our sides, Twelue thousand of the Frenchmen that day dide, Foure thousand English, and no man of name, But Captaine Hyam, and yong Ardington, Two gallant Gentlemen, I knew them well. Lin. But Dodger, prethée tell me in this fight, How did my cozen Lacie beare himselfe? Dodger.

My Lord, your cosen Lacie was not there.

 Linc.

Not there? Dog. No, my good Lord.

 Lin. Sure thou mistakest, I saw him shipt, and a thousand eies beside Were witnesses of the farewels which he gaue, When I with wéeping eies bid him adew: Dodger take héede. Dodger. My Lord I am aduis'd, That what I spake is true: to proue it so, His cosen Askew that supplide his place, Sent me for him from France, that secretly He might conuey himselfe hither. Lin. Ist euen so. Dares he so carelessely venture his life, Upon the indignation of a King? Hath he despis'd my loue, and spurn'd those fauours, Which I with prodigall hand powr'd on his head? He shall repent his rashnes with his soule, Since of my loue he makes no estimate, Ile make him wish he had not knowne my hate, Thou hast no other newes? Dodger.

None else, my Lord.

 Lin. None worse I know thou hast: procure the king To crowne his giddie browes with ample honors, Send him chéefe Colonell, and all my hope Thus to be dasht? but tis in vaine to grieue, One euill cannot a worse releeue: Upon my life I haue found out his plot, That old dog Loue that fawnd vpon him so, Loue to that puling girle, his faire cheek't Rose, The Lord Maiors daughter hath distracted him, And in the fire of that loues lunacie, Hath he burnt vp himselfe, comsum'd his credite, Lost the kings loue, yea and I feare, his life, Onely to get a wanton to his wife: Dodger, it is so. Dodger.

I feare so, my good Lord.

 Lincolne. It is so, nay sure it cannot be, I am at my wits end Dodger. Dodger.

Yea my Lord.

 Lin. Thou art acquainted with my Nephewes haunts, Spend this gold for thy paines, goe seeke him out, Watch at my Lord Maiors (there if he liue) Dodger, thou shalt be sure to méete with him: Prethée be diligent. Lacie thy name Liu'd once in honour, now dead in shame: Be circumspect. exit. Dodger.

I warrant you my Lord. exit.

Enter Lord Maior, and master Scotte. L. Ma. Good maister Scot, I haue beene bolde with you, To be a witnesse to a wedding knot, Betwixt yong maister Hammon and my daughter, O stand aside, see where the louers come. Enter Hammon, and Rose. Rose Can it be possible you loue me so? No, no, within those eie-bals I espie, Apparant likelihoods of flattery, Pray now let go my hand. Hammon. Sweete mistris Rose, Misconstrue not my words, nor misconceiue Of my affection, whose deuoted soule Sweares that I loue thée dearer then my heart. Rose. As deare as your owne heart? I iudge it right. Men loue their hearts best when th'are out of sight. Hamond.

I loue you, by this hand.

 Rose. Yet hands off now: If flesh be fraile, how weake and frail's your vowe? Hamond.

Then by my life I sweare.

 Rose. Then do not brawle, One quarrell looseth wife and life and all, Is not your meaning thus? Hamond.

In faith you iest.

 Rose.

Loue loues to sport, therfore leaue loue y'are best.

 L. Mai.

What? square they maister Scot?

 Scot. Sir, neuer doubt, Louers are quickly in, and quickly out. Ham. Swéet Rose, be not so strange in fansying me, Nay neuer turne aside, shunne not my sight, I am not growne so fond, to fond my loue On any that shall quit it with disdaine, If you wil loue me, so, if not, farewell. L. Ma.

Why how now louers, are you both agréede?

 Ham.

Yes faith my Lord.

 L. Maior. Tis well, giue me your hand, giue me yours daughter. How now, both pull backe, what meanes this, girle? Rose.

I meane to liue a maide.

 Ham.

But not to die one, pawse ere that be said. aside.

L. Mai.

Wil you stil crosse me? still be obstinate?

 Hamond. Nay chide her not my Lord for doing well, If she can liue an happie virgins life, Tis farre more blessed then to be a wife. Rose. Say sir I cannot, I haue made a vow, Who euer be my husband, tis not you. L. Mai. Your tongue is quicke, but M. Hamond know, I bade you welcome to another end. Ham. What, would you haue me pule, & pine, and pray, With louely ladie mistris of my heart, Pardon your seruant, and the rimer play, Rayling on Cupid, and his tyrants dart, Or that I vndertake some martiall spoile, Wearing your gloue at turney, and at tilt, And tel how many gallauts I vnhorst, Swéete, wil this pleasure you? Rose. Yea, when wilt begin? What louerimes man? fie on that deadly sinne. L. Maior.

If you wil haue her, Ile make her agrée.

 Ham. Enforced loue is worse then hate to me, There is a wench kéepes shop in the old change, To her wil I, it is not wealth I séeke, I haue enough, and wil preferre her loue Before the world: my good lord Maior adew, Old loue for me, I haue no lucke with new. Exit. L. Ma. Now mammet you haue wel behau'd your selfe, But you shal curse your coynes if I liue, Whose within there? sée you connay your mistris Straight to th'old Forde, Ile kéepe you straight enough, Fore God I would haue sworne the puling girle, Would willingly accepted Hammons loue, But banish him my thoughts, go minion in, exit Rose. Now tel me master Scot would you haue thought, That master Simon Eyre the shoomaker, Had béene of wealth to buy such marchandize? Scot. Twas wel my Lord, your honour, and my selfe, Grew partners with him for your bils of lading, Shew that Eyres gaines in one commoditie, Rise at the least to ful thrée thousand pound, Besides like gaine in other marchandize. L. Maior. Wel he shal spend some of his thousands now For I haue sent for him to the Guild Hal, enter Eyre. Sée where he comes: good morrow master Eyre. Eyre.

Poore Simon Eyre, my Lord, your shoomaker.

 L. Maior. Wel wel, it likes your selfe to terme you so, Now M. Dodger, whats the news with you? Enter Dodger. Dodger.

Ide gladly speake in priuate to your honour.

 L. Maior. You shal, you shal: master Eyre, and M. Scot, I haue some businesse with this gentleman, I pray let me intreate you to walke before To the Guild Hal, Ile follow presently, Master Eyre, I hope ere noone to call you Shiriffe. Eyre

I would not care (my Lord) if you might cal me king of Spaine, come master Scot.

 L. Maior.

Now maister Dodger, whats the newes you bring?

 Dod. The Earle of Lincolne by me gréets your lordship And earnestly requests you (if you can) Informe him where his Nephew Lacie kéepes. L. Maior.

Is not his Nephew Lacie now in France?

 Dodger.

No I assure your lordship, but disguisde Lurkes here in London.

 L. Maior. London? ist euen so? It may be, but vpon my faith and soule, I know not where he liues, or whether he liues, So tel my Lord of Lincolne, lurch in London? Well master Dodger, you perhaps may start him, Be but the meanes to ris him into France, Ile giue you a dozen angels for your paines, So much I loue his honour, hate his Nephew, And prethée so informe thy lord from me. Dodger.

I take my leaue. exit. Dodger.

L. Maior. Farewell good master Dodger. Lacie in London? I dare pawne my life, My daughter knowes thereof, and for that cause, Denide yong M. Hammon in his loue, Wel I am glad I sent her to old Forde, Gods lord tis late, to Guild Hall I must hie, I know my brethren stay my companie. exit. Enter Firke, Eyres wife, Hans, and Roger. Wife.

Thou goest too fast for me Roger.

 Firke.

I forsooth.

 Wife.

I pray thée runne (doe you heare) runne to Guild Hall, and learne if my husband master Eyre wil take that worshipfull vocation of M. Shiriffe vpon him, hie thée good Firke.

 Firke.

Take it? well I goe, and he should not take it, Firk sweares to forsweare him, yes forsooth I goe to Guild Hall.

 Wife.

Nay when? thou art too compendious, and tedious.

 Firke.

O rare, your excellence is full of eloquence, how like a new cart whéele my dame speakes, and she lookes like an old musty ale-bottle going to scalding.

 Wife.

Nay when? thou wilt make me melancholy.

 Firke.

God forbid your worship should fall into that humour, I runne. exit.

Wife.

Let me see now Roger and Hans.

 H.

I forsooth dame (mistris I should say) but the old terme so stickes to the roofe of my mouth, I can hardly lick it off.

 Wife.

Euen what thou wilt good Roger, dame is a faire name for any honest christian, but let that passe, how dost thou Hans?

 Hans.

Mée tanck you vro.

 Wife.

Wel Hans and Roger you sée God hath blest your master, and perdie if euer he comes to be M. Shiriffe of London (as we are al mortal) you shal sée I wil haue some odde thing or other in a corner for you: I wil not be your backe friend, but let that passe, Hans pray thée tie my shooe.

 Hans.

Yaw it sal vro.

 Wife

Roger, thou knowst the length of my foote, as it is none of the biggest, so I thanke God it is handsome enough, prethée let me haue a paire of shooes made, corke good Roger, woodden héele too.

 Hodge.

You shall.

 Wife.

Art thou acquainted with neuer a fardingale-maker, nor a French-hoode maker, I must enlarge my bumine, ha ha, how shall I looke in a hoode I wonder? perdie odly I thinke.

 Roger.

As a catte out of a pillorie, verie wel I warrant you mistresse.

 Wife.

Indéede all flesh is grasse, and Roger, canst thou tel where I may buye a good haire?

 Roger.

Yes forsooth, at the poulterers in Gracious stréet.

 VVi.

Thou art an vngratious wag, perdy, I meane a false haire for my periwig.

 Roger.

Why mistris, the next time I cut my beard, you shall haue the shauings of it, but they are all true haires.

 VVi.

It is verie hot, I must get me a fan or else a maske.

 Rog.

So you had néede, to hide your wicked face.

 VVi.

Fie vpon it, how costly this world's calling is, perdy, but that it is one of the wonderfull works of God, I would not deale with it: is not Firke come yet? Hans bée not so sad, let it passe and vanish, as my husbands worshippe saies.

 Hans.

Ick bin vrolicke, lot sée yow soo.

 Roger.

Mistris, wil you drinke a pipe of Tobacco?

 VVife.

O fie vppon it Roger, perdy, these silthie Tobacco pipes are the most idle slauering bables that euer I felt: out vppon it, God blesse vs, men looke not like men that vse thē.

 Enter Rafe being lame. Roger.

What fellow Rafe? Mistres looke here, Ianes husband, why how, lame? Hans make much of him, hées a brother of our trade, a good workeman, and a tall souldier.

 Hans.

You be welcome broder.

 Wife.

Pardie I knew him not, how dost thou good Rafe? I am glad to sée thée wel.

 Rafe. I would God you saw me dame as wel, As when I went from London into France. Wife.

Trust mee I am sorie Rafe to sée thée impotent, Lord how the warres haue made him Sunburnt: the left leg is net wel it was a faire gift of God the infirmitie tooke not hold a litle higher, considering thou camest from France: but let that passe.

 Rafe. I am glad to sée you wel, and I reioyce To heare that God hath blest my master so Since my departure. Wife.

Yea truly Rafe, I thanke my maker: but let that passe.

 Rog.

And sirra Rafe, what newes, what newes in France?

 Rafe. Tel mee good Roger first, what newes in England? Haw does my Iane? when didst thou sée my wife? Where liues my poore heart? shéel be poore indéed Now I want limbs to get whereon to féed. Roger.

Limbs? hast thou not hands man? thou shalt neuer sée a shoomaker want bread, though he haue but thrée fingers on a hand.

 Rafe.

Yet all this while I heare not of my Iane.

 Wife.

O Rafe your wife, perdie we knowe not whats become of her: she was here a while, and because she was married grewe more stately then became her, I checkt her, and so forth, away she flung, neuer returned, nor saide bih nor bah: and Rafe you knowe ka me, ka thée. And so as I tell ye. Roger is not Firke come yet?

 Roger.

No forsooth.

 Wife.

And so indeed we heard not of her, but I heare shée liues in London: but let that passe. If she had wanted, shee might haue opened her case to me or my husband, or to any of my men, I am sure theres not any of them perdie, but would haue done her good to his power. Hans looke if Firke be come.

 Exit Hans. Hans.

Yaw it sal vro.

 Wife.

And so as I saide: but Rafe, why dost thou wéepe? thou knowest that naked wee came out of our mothers wombe, and naked we must returne, and therefore thanke God for al things.

 Roger.

No faith Iane is a straunger héere, but Rafe pull vp a good heart, I knowe thou hast one, thy wife man, is in London, one tolde mée hée sawe her a while agoe verie braue and neate, wéele ferret her out, and London holde her.

 Wife.

Alas, poore soule, hées ouercome with sorrowe, he does but as I doe, weepe for the losse of any good thing: but Rafe, get thee in, call for some meate and drinke, thou shalt find me worshipful towards thée.

 Rafe. I thanke you dame, siuce I want lims and lands, Ile to God, my good friends, and to these my hands. exit. Enter Hans, and Firke running. Fyrke.

Runne good Hans, O Hodge, O mistres, Hodge. heaue vp thine eares, mistresse smugge vp your lookes, on with your best apparell, my maister is chosen, my master is called nay condemn'd by the crie of the countrie to be shiriffe of the Citie, for this famous yeare nowe to come: and time now being, a great many men in blacke gownes were askt for their voyces, and their hands, and my master had al their fists about his eares presently, and they cried I, I, I, I, and so I came away, wherefore without all other grieue, I doe salute you mistresse shrieue.

 Hans.

Yaw, my mester is de groot man, de shrieue.

 Roger.

Did not I tell you mistris? nowe I may boldly say, good morrow to your worship.

 Wife.

Good morrow good Roger, I thanke you my good people all. Firke, hold vp thy hand, héer's a thrée-peny péece for thy tidings.

 Fyrk.

Tis but thrée halfe pence, I thinke: yes, tis thrée pence, I smel the Rose.

 Roger.

But mistresse, be rulde by me, and doe not speake so pulingly.

 Firke.

Tis her worship speakes so, and not she, no faith mistresse, speake mee in the olde key, too it Firke, there good Firke, plie your businesse Hodge, Hodge, with a full mouth: Ile fill your bellies with good cheare til they crie twang.

 Enter Simon Eire wearing a gold chaine. Hans.

See myn lieuer broder, héer compt my meester.

 Wife.

Welcome home maister shrieue, I pray God continue you in health and wealth.

 Eyre.

See here my Maggy, a chaine, a gold chaine for Simon Eyre, I shal make thee a Lady, heer's a French hood for thee, on with it, on with it, dresse thy browes with this flap of a shoulder of mutton, to make thée looke louely: where be my fine men? Roger, Ile make ouer my shop and tooles to thee: Firke, thou shalt be the foreman: Hans, thou shalt haue an hundred for twentie, bee as mad knaues as your maister Sim Eyre hath bin, & you shall liue to be Sheriues of London: how dost thou like me Margerie? Prince am I none, yet am I princely borne, Firke, Hodge, and Hans.

 Al • .

I forsooth, what saies your worship mistris Sherife?

 Eyre.

Worship and honour you Babilonion knaues, for the Gentle Craft: but I forgot my selfe, I am bidden by my Lord Maior to •• ner to old Foord, hees gone before, I must after: come Hodge, on with your trinkets: nowe my true 〈◊〉 , my fine Firke, my dapper Hodge, my honest Hans, some deuice, some odde crochets, some morris, or such like, for the honour of the gentle shooemakers, meete me at old Foord, you know my minde: come Madge, away shutte vp the shop knaues, and make holiday. exeunt.

Firke. O rare, O braue, come Hodge, follow me Hans, Wéele be with them for a morris daunce. exeunt. Enter Lord Maior, Eyre, his wife, Sibill in a French hood, and other seruants. L. Maior.

Trust mee you are as welcome to old Foord, as I my selfe.

 Wife.

Truely I thanke your Lordship.

 L. Ma.

Would our bad chéere were worth the thanks you giue.

 Eyre.

Good chéere my Lord Maior, fine chéere, a fine house, fine walles, all fine and neat.

 L. Maior. Now by my troth Ile tel thée maister Eyre, It does me good and al my brethren, That such a madcap fellow as thy selfe Is entred into our societie. Wife.

I but my Lord, hee must learne nowe to putte on grauitie.

 Eyre.

Peace Maggy, a fig for grauitie, when I go to Guildhal in my scarlet gowne, Ile look as demurely as a saint, and speake as grauely as a Justice of peace, but now I am here at old Foord, at my good Lord Maiors house, let it go by, vanish Maggy, Ile be merrie, away with flip flap, these fooleries, these gulleries: what hunnie? prince am I none, yet am I princly borne: what sayes my Lord Maior?

 L. Maior. Ha, ha, ha, I had rather then a thousand pound, I had an heart but halfe so light as yours. Eyre.

Why what should I do my Lord? a pound of care paies not a dram of debt: hum, lets be merry whiles we are yong, olde age, sacke and sugar will steale vpon vs ere we be aware.

 L. Ma.

Its wel done mistris Eyre, pray giue good counsell to my daughter.

 Wife.

I hope mistris Rose wil haue the grace to take nothing thats bad.

 L. Ma. Pray God she do, for ifaith mistris Eyre, I would bestow vpon that peeuish girle A thousand Marks more then I meane to giue her, Upon condition shéed be rulde by me, The Ape still crosseth me: there came of late, A proper Gentleman of faire reuenewes, Whom gladly I would call sonne in law: But my fine cockney would haue none of him. You'le proue a cockscombe for it ere you die, A courtier, or no man must please your eie. Eyre.

Be rulde swéete Rose, th'art ripe for a man: marrie not with a boy, that has no more haire on his face then thou hast on thy chéekes: a courtier, wash, go by, stand not vppon pisherie pasherie: those silken fellowes are but painted Images, outsides, outsides Rose, their inner linings are torne: no my fine mouse, marry me with a Gentleman Grocer like my Lord Maior your Father, a Grocer is a swéete trade, Plums, Plums: had I a sonne or Daughter should marrie out of the generation and bloud of the shoe-makers, he should packe: what, the Gentle trade is a liuing for a man through Europe, through the world.

 Anoyse within of a Taber and a Pipe. Maior.

What noyse is this?

 Eyre.

O my Lord Maior, a true of good fellowes that for loue to your honour, are come hither with a morrisdance, come in my Mesopotamians chéerely.

 Enter Hodge, Hans, Raph, Firke, and other shooe-makers in a morris: after a little dauncing the Lord Maior Speakes. Maior.

Maister Eyre, are al these shoe-makers?

 Eyre.

Al Cordwainers my good Lord Maior.

 Rose.

How like my Lacie lookes yond shooe-maker.

 Haunce.

O that I durst but speake vnto my loue!

 Maior. Sibil, go fetch some wine to make these drinke, You are al welcome. All. We thanke your Lordship. Rose takes a cup of wine and goes to Haunce. Rose.

For his sake whose faire shape thou representst, Good friend I drinke to thée.

 Hans.

It be dancke good frister.

 Eyres Wife.

I see mistris Rose you do not want iudgement, you haue drunke to the properest man I kéepe.

 Firke.

Here bee some haue done their parts to be as proper as he.

 Maior. Wel, vrgent busines cals me backe to London: Good fellowes, first go in and taste our cheare, And to make merrie as you homeward go, Spend these two angels in beere at Stratford Boe. Eyre.

To these two (my madde lads) Sim Eyre ads another, then chéerely Firke, tickle it Haunce, and al for the honour of shoemakers.

 All goe dauncing out. M.

Come maister Eyre, lets haue your companie. exeunt.

Rose.

Sibil What shal I do?

 Sibill.

Why whats the matter?

 Rose. That Haunce the shoemaker is my loue Lacie, Disguisde in that attire to find me out, How should I find the meanes to speake with him? Sibill.

What mistris, neuer feare, I dare venter my maidenhead to nothing, and thats great oddes, that Haunce the Dutchman when we come to London, shal not onely sée and speake with you, but in spight of al your Fathers pollicies, steale you away and marrie you, will not this please you?

 Rose.

Do this, and euer be assured of my loue.

 Sibil. Away then and follow your father to London, left your absence cause him to suspect something: To morrow if my counsel be obayde, Ile binde you prentise to the gentle trade. Enter Iane in a Semsters shop working, and Hamond muffled at another doore, he stands aloofe. Hamond. Yonders the shop, and there my faire loue sits, Shées faire and louely, but she is not mine, O would she were, thrise haue I courted her, Thrise hath my hand béene moistned with her hand, Whilst my poore famisht eies do féed on that Which made them famish: I am infortunate, I stil loue one, yet no body loues me, I muse in other men what women sée, That I so want? fine mistris Rose was coy, And this too curious, oh no, she is chaste, And for the thinkes me wanton, she denies 〈◊〉 cheare my cold heart with her sunnie eies: How prettily she workes, oh prettie hand! Oh happie worke, it doth me good to stand 〈◊〉 to sée her, thus I oft haue stood, In frostie euenings, a light burning by her, Enduring biting cold, only to eie her, One onely looke hath séem'd as rich to me As a kings crowne, such is loues lunacie: Muffeled Ile passe along, and by that trie Whether she know me. Iane. Sir, what ist you buy? What ist you lacke sir? callico, or lawne, Fine cambricke shirts, or bands, what will you buy? Ham. That which thou wilt not sell, faith yet Ile trie: How do you sell this handkercher? Iane.

Good cheape.

 Ham.

And how these ruffes?

 Iane.

Cheape too.

 Ham.

And how this band?

 Iane.

Cheape too.

 Ham.

All cheape, how sell you then this hand?

 Iane.

My handes are not to be solde.

 Ham.

To be giuen then: nay faith I come to buy.

 Iane.

But none knowes when.

 Ham.

Good swéete, leaue worke a little while, lets play.

 Iane.

I cannot liue by keeping holliday.

 Ham.

Ile pay you for the time which shall be lost.

 Iane.

With me you shall not be at so much cost.

 Ham.

Look how you wound this cloth, so you wound me.

 Iane.

It may be so.

 Ham.

Tis so.

 Iane.

What remedie?

 Ham.

Nay faith you are too coy.

 Iane.

Let goe my hand.

 Ham. I will do any task of your command, I would let goe this beautie, were I not In mind to disobey you by a power That controlles kings: I loue you. Iane.

So, now part.

 Ham. With hands I may, but neuer with my heart, In faith I loue you. Iane.

I beleeue you doe.

 Ham.

Shall a true loue in me bréede hate in you?

 Iane.

I hate you not.

 Ham.

Then you must loue.

 Iane.

I doe, what are you better now? I loue not you,

 Ham. All this I hope is but a womans fray, That means, come to me, when she cries, away: In earnest mistris I do not iest, A true chaste loue hath entred in my brest, In loue you dearely as I loue my life, I loue you as a husband loues a wife. That, and no other loue my loue requires, Thy wealth I know is little, my desires Thirst not for gold, swéete beauteous Iane whats mine, Shall (if thou make my selfe thine) all be thine, Say, iudge, what is thy sentence, life or death? Mercie or crueltie lies in thy breath. Iane. Good sir, I do beleeue you loue me well: For tis a séely conquest, séely pride, For one like you (I meane a gentleman) To boast, that by his loue tricks he hath brought, Such and such women to his amorous lure: I thinke you do not so, yet many doe, And make it euen a very trade to wooe, I could be coy, as many women be, Féede you with sunne-shine smiles, and wanton lookes, But I detest witchcraft, say that I Doe coustantly beleeue you, constant haue. Ham.

Why dost thou not beléeue me?

 Iane. I beleeue you, But yet good sir, because I will not gréeue you, With hopes to taste fruite, which will neuer fall, In simple truth this is the summe of all My husband liues, at least I hope he liues, Prest was he to these bitter warres in France, Bitter they are to me by wanting him, I haue but one heart, and that hearts his due, How can I then bestow the same on you? Whilst he liues, his I liue, be it nere so poore, And rather be his wife, then a kings whore. Ham. Chaste and deare woman, I will not abuse thée, Although it cost my life, if thou refuse me, Thy husband prest for France, what was his name? Iane.

Rafe Damport.

 Ham. Damport, heres a letter sent From France to me, from a deare friend of mine, A gentleman of place, here he doth write, Their names that haue bin slaine in euery fight. Iane.

I hope deaths scroll containes not my loues name

 Ham.

Cannot you reade?

 Iane.

I can.

 Ham. Beruse the same, To my remembrance such a name I read Amongst the rest: sée here. Iane. Aye me, hées dead: Hées dead, if this be true my deare hearts slaine. Ham.

Haue patience, deare loue.

 Iane.

Hence, hence.

 Ham. Nay swéete Iane, Make not poore sorrow prowd with these rich teares, I mourne thy husbands death because thou mournst. Iane.

That bil is forgde; tis signde by forgerie.

 Ham. Ile bring thée letters sent besides to many Carrying the like report: Iane tis too true, Come, wéepe not: mourning though it rise from loue Helpes not the mourned, yet hurtes them that mourne. Iane.

For Gods sake leaue me.

 Ham. Whither dost thou turne? Forget the déede, loue them that are aliue, His loue is faded, trie how mine will thriue. Iane.

Tis now no time for me to thinke on loue,

 Ham.

Tis now best time for you to thinke on loue, because your loue liues not.

 Iane. Thogh he be dead, my loue to him shal not be buried: For Gods sake leaue me to my selfe alone. Ham. I would kil my soule to leaue thée drownd in mone: Answere me to my sute, and I am gone, Say to me, yea, or no. Iane.

No.

 Ham.

Then farewell, one farewel wil not serue, I come again, come drie these wet chéekes, tel me faith sweete Iane, yea, or no, once more.

 Iane.

Once more I say no, once more be gone I pray, else wil I goe.

 Ham. Nay then I wil grow rude by this white hand, Until you change that colde no, here ile stand, Til by your hard heart Iane. Nay, for Gods loue peace, My sorrowes by your presence more increase, Not that you thus are present, but al griefe Desires to be alone, therefore in briefe Thus much I say, and saying bid adew, If euer I wed man it shall be you. Ham. Oh blessed voyce, deare Iane Ile vrge no more, Thy breath hath made me rich. Iane.

Death makes me poore. exeunt.

Enter Hodge at his shop boord, Rafe, Firk, Hans, and a boy at work. All.

Hey downe, a downe, downe derie.

 Hodge.

Well said my hearts, plie your worke to day, we loytred yesterday, to it pell mel, that we may liue to be Lord Maiors, or Aldermen at least.

 Firke.

Hey downe a downe derie.

 Hodge.

Well said yfaith, how saist thou Hauns, doth not Firke tickle it?

 Hauns.

Yaw mester.

 Firke.

Not so neither, my organe pipe squeakes this morning for want of licoring: hey downe a downe derie.

 Hans.

Forward Firk, tow best vn iolly yongster hort I mester it bid yo cut me vn pair vāpres vor mester ieffres bootes.

 Hodge.

Thou shalt Haims.

 Firke.

Master.

 Hodge

How now, boy?

 Firke

Pray, now you are in the cutting vaine, cut mée out a paire of counterfeits, or else my worke will not passe currant, hey downe a downe.

 Hodge

Tell me sirs, are my coosin M. Priscillaes shooes done?

 Firke

Your coosin? no maister, one of your auntes, hang her, let them alone.

 Rafe

I am in hand with them, she gaue charge that none but I should doe them for her. 〈…〉

Firke

Thou do for her? then 〈…〉 that she loues not: Rafe, thou n 〈…〉 in faith I would haue yearkt and 〈…〉 downe a downe derry, this géere w 〈…〉

Hodge

How saist thou Firke? were 〈…〉 Ford?

 Firke

How merry? why our buttockes went Iiggy ioggy like a quagmyre: wel sir Roger Oatemeale, if I thought all meale of that nature, I would eate nothing but bag puddings.

 Rafe

Of all good fortunes, my fellow Hance had the best.

 Firke

Tis true, because mistris Rose dranke to him.

 Hodge

Wel, wel, worke apace, they say seuen of the Aldermen be dead, or very sicke.

 Firke

I care not, Ile be none.

 Rafe

No nor I, but then my M. Eyre will come quickly to be L. Mayor. Enter Sibil.

Firke

Whoop, yonder comes Sibil.

 Hodge

Sibil, welcome yfaith, and how dost thou madde wench?

 Firke

Sib whoore, welcome to London.

 Sibil

Godamercy sweete Firke: good Lord Hodge, what a delitious shop you haue got, you tickle it yfaith.

 Rafe

God a mercy Sibil for our good chéere at old Ford.

 Sibil

That you shal haue Rafe.

 Firke

Nay by the masse, we hadde tickling chéere Sibil, and how the plague dost thou and mistris Rose, and my L. Mayor? I put the women in first.

 Sibil

Wel Godamercy: but Gods me, I forget my self, wheres Haunce the Fleming?

 Firke Hearke butter-boxe, uowe you must yely out some spreken. 〈…〉 od gon Frister. 〈…〉 me to my yong mistris, to pull 〈…〉 〈…〉 le fro, vare ben your mistris? 〈…〉 our London house in Cornewaile 〈…〉 serue her turne but Hans? 〈…〉 come Hans, I stand vpon néedles. Hodg.

Why then Sibil, take héede of pricking.

 Sibill.

For that let me alone, I haue a tricke in my budget, come Hans.

 Hans.

Yaw, yaw, ic sall méete yo gane.

 Exit Hans and Sibill. Hodge.

Go Hans, make haste againe: come, who lacks worke?

 Firke.

I maister, for I lacke my breakfast, tis munching time, and past

 Hodge

Ist so? why then leaue worke Raph, to breakfast, boy looke to the tooles, come Raph, come Firke. Exeunt.

Enter a Serningman. Ser.

Let me sée now, the signe of the last in Towerstréet, mas yonders the house: what haw, whoes within?

 Enter Raph. Raph.

Who calles there, what want you sir?

 Seru.

Marrie I would haue a paire of shooes made for a Gentlewoman against to morrow morning, what can you do them?

 Raph.

Yes sir, you shall haue them, but what lengths her foote?

 Seru.

Why you must make them in all parts like this shoe, but at any hand faile not to do them, for the Gentlewoman is to be married very early in the morning.

 Raph

How? by this shoe must it be made? by this, are you sure sir by this?

 Seru.

How, by this am I sure, by this? art thou in thy wits? I tell thée I must haue a paire of shooes, dost thou marke me? a paire of shooes, two shooes, made by this verie shoe, this same shoe, against to morrow morning by foure a clock, dost vnderstand me, canst thou do't?

 Raph.

Yes sir, yes, I, I, I can do't, by this shoe you say: I should knowe this shoe, yes sir, yes, by this shoe, I can do t, foure a clocke, well, whither shall I bring them?

 Seru.

To the signe of the golden ball in Watlingstréete, enquire for one maister Hamon a gentleman, my maister.

 Raph.

Yea sir, by this shoe you say.

 Seru.

I say maister Hammon at the golden ball, hée's the Bridegroome, and those shooes are for his bride.

 Raph.

They shal be done by this shoe: wel, well, Maister Hammon at the golden shoe, I would say the golden Ball, verie well, verie well, but I pray you sir where must maister Hammon be married?

 Seru.

At Saint Faiths Church vnder Paules: but whats that to thée? prethee dispatch those shooes, and so farewel.

 exit. Raph. By this shoe said he, how am I amasde At this strange accident? vpon my life, This was the verie shoe I gaue my wife When I was prest for France, since when alas, I neuer could heare of her: it is the same, And Hammons Bride no other but my Iane. Enter Firke. Firke.

Snailes Raph thou hast lost thy part of thrée pots, a countrieman of mine gaue me to breakfast.

 Rafe

I care not, I haue found a better thing.

 Firke

A thing? away, is it a mans thing, or a womans thing?

 Rafe

Firke, dost thou know this shooe?

 Firke

No by my troth, neither doth that know me? I haue no acquaintance with it, tis a méere stranger to me.

 Rafe Why then I do, this shooe I durst be sworne Once couered the instep of my Iane: This is her size, her breadth, thus trod my loue, These true loue knots I prickt, I hold my life, By this old shooe I shall finde out my wife. Firke

Ha ha old shoo, that wert new, how a murren came this ague fit of foolishnes vpon thee?

 Rafe Thus Firke, euen now here came a seruingman, By this shooe would he haue a new paire made Against to morrow morning for his mistris, Thats to be married to a Gentleman, And why may not this be my swéete Iane? Firke

And why maist not thou be my swéete Asse? ha, ha.

 Rafe Wel, laugh, and spare not: but the trueth is this. Against to morrow morning Ile prouide, A lustie crue of honest shoomakers, To watch the going of the bride to church, If she proue Iane, Ile take her in dispite, From Hammon and the diuel, were he by, If it be not my Iane, what remedy? Hereof am I sure, I shall liue till I die, Although I neuer with a woman lie. exit. Fir.

Thou he with a woman to builde nothing but Cripple-gates! Well, God sends fooles fortune, and it may be he may light vpon his matrimony by such a deuice, for wedding and hanging goes by destiny.

 exit. Enter Hauns, and Rose arme in arme. Hans. How happie am I by embracing thée, Oh I did feare such crosse mishaps did raigne, That I should neuer see my Rose againe. Rose. Swéete Lacie, since faire Oportunitie Offers her selfe to furder our escape, Let not too ouer-fond estéeme of me Hinder that happie hower, inuent the meanes, And Rose will follow thée through all the world. Hans. Oh how I surfeit with excesse of ioy, Made happie by thy rich perfection, But since thou paist sweete intrest to my hopes, Redoubling loue on loue, let me once more, Like to a bold facde debter craue of thée, This night to steale abroade, and at Eyres house, Who now by death of certaine Aldermen, Is Maior of London, and my master once, Méete thou thy Lacie where in spite of change, Your fathers anger, and mine vncles hate, Our happie nuptialls will me consummate. Enter Sibill. Sib

Oh God, what will you doe mistris? shift for your selfe, your father is at hand, hées comming, hées comming, master Lacie hide your selfe in my mistris, for Gods sake shift for your selues.

 Hans Your father come, swéete Rose, what shall I doe? Where shall I hide me? how shall I escape? Rose. A man and want wit in extremitie, Come, come, be Hauns still, play the shoomaker, Pull on my shooe. Enter Lord Maior. Hans

Mas, and thats well remembred.

 Sib

Here comes your father.

 Hans.

Forware metresse, tis vn good skow, it sal vel dute, or ye sal neit betallen.

 Rose.

Oh God it pincheth me, what will you do?

 Hans.

Your fathers presence pincheth, not the shoo.

 L. Mai.

Well done, fit my daughter well, and shee shall please thee well.

 Hans.

Yaw, yaw, ick weit dat well, for ware tis vn good shoo, tis gi mait van neits leither, se ener mine here.

 Enter a prentice. L. Mai.

I do beléeue it, whats the newes with you?

 Prent.

Please you, the Earle of Lincolne at the gate is newly lighted, and would speake with you.

 L. Mai. The Earle of Lincolne come speake with me? Well, well, I know his errand: daughter Rose, Send hence your shoomaker, dispatch, haue done: Sib, make things handsome: sir boy follow me. Exit. Hans. Mine vncle come, oh what may this portend? Swéete Rose, this of our loue threatens an end. Rose. Be not dismaid at this what ere befall, Rose is thine owne, to witnes I speake truth, Where thou appoints the place Ile méete with thée, I will not fixe a day to follow thée, But presently steale hence, do not replie. Loue which gaue strength to beare my fathers hate, Shall now adde wings to further our escape. exeunt. Enter L. Maior, and Lincolne. L. Mai. Beléeue me, on my credite I speake truth, Since first your nephew Lacie went to France, I haue not seene him. It séemd strange to me, When Dodger told me that he staide behinde, Neglecting the hie charge the King imposed. Linc. Trust me (sir Roger Otly) I did thinke Your counsell had giuen head to this attempt, Drawne to it by the loue he beares your child. Here I did hope to find him in your house, But now I sée mine error, and confesse My iudgement wrongd you by conceuing so. L. Maior Lodge in my house, say you? trust me my Lord, I loue your Nephew Lacie too too dearely So much to wrong his honor, and he hath done so, That first gaue him aduise to stay from France. To witnesse I speake truth, I let you know How carefull I haue beene to kéepe my daughter Frée from all conference, or spéech of him, Not that I skorne your Nephew, but in loue I beare your honour, least your noble bloud, Should by my meane worth be dishonoured. Lin. How far the churles tongue wanders from his hart, Well, well sir Roger Otley I beléeue you, With more then many thankes for the kind loue, So much you séeme to beare me: but my Lord, Let me request your helpe to séeke my Nephew, Whom if I find, Ile straight embarke for France, So shal my Rose be frée, your thoughts at rest, And much care die which now dies in my brest. Enter Sibill. Sibill.

Oh Lord, help for Gods sake, my mistris, oh my yong mistris.

 L. Ma.

Where is thy mistris? whats become of her?

 Sibill.

Shées gone, shées fled.

 L. Maior

Gone? whither is she fled?

 Sibill.

I know not forsooth, shées fled out of doores with Hauns the Shoomaker, I saw them scud, scud, scud, apace, apace.

 L. Maior

Which way? what Iohn, where be my men? which way?

 Sibil

I know not, and it please your worship.

 L. maior

Fled with a shoomaker, can this be true?

 Sibil

Oh Lord sir, as true as Gods in heauen.

 Linc.

Her loue turnd shoomaker? I am glad of this.

 L. ma. A fleming butter bore, a shoomaker, Will she forget her birth? requite my care With such ingratitude? skornd she yong Hammon, To loue a honnikin, a néedie knaue? Wel let her flie, Ile not flie after her, Let her starue if she wil, shées none of mine. Linc.

Be not so cruell sir.

 Enter Firke with shooes. Sibil

I am glad shées scapt.

 L. Ma. Ile not account of her as of my child: Was there no better obiect for her eies, But a foule drunken lubber, swill bellie, A shoomaker, thats braue. Firke.

Yea forsooth, tis a very braue shooe, and as fit as a padding.

 L. Ma

How now, what knaue is this, from whence commest thou?

 Firke

No knaue sir, I am Firke the shoomaker, lusty Rogers cheefe lustie iorneyman, and I come hither to take vp the prettie legge of sweete mistris Rose, and thus hoping your worshippe is in as good health as I was at the making hereof, I bid you farewell, yours Firke.

 L. Ma.

Stay stay sir knaue.

 Linc.

Come hither shoomaker.

 Firke

Tis happie the knaue is put before the shoomaker, or else I would not haue vouchsafed to come backe to you, I am moued, for I stirre.

 L. Ma.

My Lorde, this villaine calles vs knaues by craft.

 Firk.

Then tis by the Gentle Craft, and to cal one knaue gently, is no harme: sit your worship merie: Sib your yong mistris Ile so bob then, now my maister M. Eyre is Lorde Maior of London.

 L. Ma.

Tell me sirra, whoes man are you?

 Firke

I am glad to see your worship so merrie, I haue no maw to this geere, no stomacke as yet to a red peticote.

 Pointing to Sibil. Lin He means not sir to wooe you to his maid, But onely doth demand whose man you are. Firke

I sing now to the tune of Rogero▪ Roger my felow is now my master.

 Lin

Sirra, knowst thou one Hauns a shoomaker?

 Firk

Hauns shoomaker, oh yes, stay, yes I haue him, I tel you what, I speake it in secret, mistris Rose, and he are by this time: no not so, but shortly are to come ouer one another with, Can you dance the shaking of the shéetes? it is that Hauns, Ile so gull these diggers.

 L. Ma

Knowst thou then where he is?

 Firke

Yes forsooth, yea marry.

 Lin

Canst thou in sadnesse?

 Firke

No forsooth, no marrie.

 L. Ma Tell me good honest fellow where he is, And thou shalt see what Ile bestow of thee. Firke

Honest fellow, no sir, not so sir, my profession is the Gentle Craft, I care not for séeing, I loue feeling, let me feele it here, aurium tenus, ten peeces of gold, genuum tenus, ten peeces of siluer, and then Firke is your man in a new paire of strechers.

 L. Ma. Here is an Angel, part of thy reward, Which I will giue thée, tell me where he is. Firke.

No point: shal I betray my brother? no, shal I proue Iudas to Hans? no, shall I crie treason to my corporation? no, I shall be firkt and yerkt then, but giue me your angell, your angell shall tel you.

 Lin

Doe so good fellow, tis no hurt to thée.

 Firke

Send simpering Sib away.

 L. Ma

Huswife, get you in.

 exit Sib. Firke.

Pitchers haue eares, and maides haue wide mouthes: but for Hauns prauns, vpon my word to morrow morning, he and yong mistris Rose goe to this géere, they shall be married together, by this rush, or else tourne Firke to a firkin of butter to tanne leather withall.

 L. Ma.

But art thou sure of this?

 Firke

Am I sure that Paules stéeple is a handfull higher then London stone? or that the pissing conduit leakes nothing but pure mother Bunch? am I sure I am lustie Firke, Gods nailes doe you thinke I am so base to gull you?

 Linc.

Where are they married? dost thou know the church?

 Firke

I neuer goe to church, but I know the name of it, it is a swearing church, stay a while, tis: I by the mas, no, no, tis I by my troth, no nor that, tis I by my faith, that that, tis I by my Faithes church vnder Paules crosse, there they shall be knit like a paire of stockings in matrimonie, there theile be in conie.

 Lin. Upon my life, my Nephew Lacie walkes In the disguise of this Dutch shoomaker. Firke

Yes forsooth.

 Linc.

Doth he not honest fellow?

 Firke

No forsooth, I thinke Hauns is no bodie, but Hans no spirite.

 L. Ma.

My mind misgiues me now tis so indéede.

 Lin.

My cosen speakes the language, knowes the trade.

 L. Ma. Let me request your companie my Lord, Your honourable presence may, no doubt, Refraine their head-strong rashnesse, when my selfe Going alone perchance may be oreborne, Shall I request this fauour? Linc.

This, or what else.

 Firke

Then you must rise betimes, for they meane to fal to their hey passe, and repasse, pindy pandy, which hand will you haue, very earely.

 L. Ma. My care shal euery way equal their haste, This night accept your lodging in my house, The earlier shal we stir, and at Saint Faithes Preuent this giddy hare-braind nuptiall, This trafficke of hot loue shal yéeld cold gaines, They ban our loues, and wéele forbid their baines. exeunt. Linc.

At Saint Faithes church thou saist.

 Firke

Yes, by their troth.

 Linc.

Be secret on thy life.

 Firke

Yes, when I kisse your wife, ha, ha, heres no craft in the Gentle Craft, I came hither of purpose with shooes to sir Rogers worship, whilst Rose his daughter be coniecatcht by Hauns: soft nowe, these two gulles will be at Saint Faithes church to morrow morning, to take master Bride-groome, and mistris Bride napping, and they in the meane time shal chop vp the matter at the Sauoy: but the best sport is, sir Roger Otly wil find my felow lame, Rafes wife going to marry a gentleman, and then heele stop her in stéede of his daughter; oh braue, there wil be fine tickling sport: ••• t now, what haue I to doe? oh I know now a messe of shoomakers meate at the wooll sack in I vie lane, to cozen my gentleman of lame Rafes wife, thats true, alacke, alacke girles, holde out tacke, for nowe smockes for this tumbling shall goe to wracke. exit

Enter Ayre, his Wife, hauns, and Rose. Eyre

This is the morning then, stay my bully my honest Hauns, is it not?

 Hans

This is the morning that must make vs two happy, or miserable, therefore if you

 Eyre

Away with these iffes and ands Hauns, and these et caeteraes, by mine honor Rowland Lacie none but the king shall wrong thée: come, feare nothing, am not I Sim Eyre? Is not Sim Eyre Lord mayor of London? feare nothing Rose, let them al say what they can, dainty come thou to me: laughest thou?

 Wife

Good my lord, stand her friend in what thing you may.

 Eyre

Why my swéete lady Madgy, thincke you Simon Eyre can forget his fine dutch Iourneyman? No vah. Fie I scorne it, it shall neuer be cast in my teeth, that I was vnthankeful. Lady Madgy, thou hadst neuer couerd thy Saracens head with this french flappe, nor loaden thy bumme with this farthingale, tis trash, trumpery, vanity, Simon Eyre had neuer walkte in a redde petticoate, nor wore a chaine of golde, but for my fine Iourneymans portigues, and shall I leaue him? No: Prince am I none, yet beare a princely minde.

 Hans

My Lorde, tis time for vs to part from hence.

 Eyre

Lady Madgy, lady Madgy, take two or thrée of my pie-crust eaters, my buffe-ierkin varlets, that doe walke in blacke gownes at Simon Eyres héeles, take them good lady Madgy, trippe and goe, my browne Quéene uf Perriwigs, with my delicate Rose, and my iolly Rowland to the Sauoy, see them linckte, countenaunce the marriage, and when it is done, cling, cling together, you • amborow Turtle Doues, Ile beare you out, come to Simon Eyre, come dwell with me Hauns, thou shalt eate minede pies, and marchpane. Rose, away cricket, trippe and goe, my Lady Madgy to the Sauoy, Hauns, wed, and to bed, kisse and away, go, vanish.

 Wife

Farewel my lord.

 Rose

Make haste sweet loue.

 Wife

Shéede faine the deede were done.

 Hauns

Come my swéete Rose, faster than Déere wéele runne.

 They goe out. Eyre

Goe, vanish, vanish, auaunt I say: by the lorde of Ludgate, its a madde life to be a lorde Mayor, its a stirring life, a fine life, a veluet life, a carefull life. Well Simon Eyre, yet set a good face on it, in the honor of sainct Hugh. Soft, the king this day comes to dine with me, to see my new buildings, his maiesty is welcome, he shal haue good chéere, delicate cheere, princely cheere. This day my felow prentises of London come to dine with me too, they shall haue fine cheere, gentlemanlike cheere. I promised the mad Cappidosians, when we all serued at the Conduit together, that if euer I came to be Mayor of London, I woould feast them al, and Ile doot, Ile doot by the life of Pharaoh, by this beard Sim Eire wil be no flincher. Besides, I haue procurd, that vpon euery Shrouetuesday, at the sound of the pancake bell: my fine dapper Allyrian lads, shall clap vp their shop windows, and away, this is the day, and this day they shall doot, they shall doot: boyes, that day are you frée, let masters care, and prentises shall pray for Simon Eyre. exit.

Enter Hodge, Firke, Rafe, and fiue or sixe shoomakers, all with cudgels, or such weapons. Hodge

Come Rafe, stand to it Firke: my masters, as we are the braue bloods of the shooemakers, heires apparant to saint Hugh, and perpetuall benefactors to all good fellowes▪ thou shalt haue no wrong, were Hammon a king of spades, he should not delue in thy close without thy sufferaunce: but tell me Rafe, art thou sure tis thy wife?

 Rafe

Am I sure this is Firke? This morning when I strokte on her shooes, I lookte vpon her, and she vpon me, and sighed, askte me if euer I knew one Rafe. Yes sayde I: for his sake saide she (teares standing in her eyes) and for thou art somewhat like him, spend this péece of golde: I tooke it: my lame leg, and my trauel beyond sea made me vnknown, all is one for that, I know shées mine.

 Firke

Did she giue thée this gold? O glorious glittering gold; shées thine owne, tis thy wife, and she loues thée, for Ile stand toot, theres no woman will giue golde to any man, but she thinkes better of him than she thinkes of them shee giues siluer to: and for Hamon, neither Hamon nor Hangman shall wrong thée in London: Is not òur olde maister Eire lord Mayor? Speake my hearts.

 All

Yes, and Hamon shall know it to his cost.

 Enter hamon, his man, Iane, and other. Hodge

Peace my bullies, yonder they come.

 Rafe,

Stand toot my hearts, Firke, let me speake first.

 Hodge

No Rafe, let me: Hammon, whither away so earely?

 Hamon

Unmannerly rude slaue, whats that to thée?

 Firke

To him sir? yes sir, and to me, and others: good morow Iane, how dost thou? good Lord, how the world is changed with you, God be thanked.

 Hamon

Villaines, handes off, howe dare you touch my loue?

 All

villaines? downe with them, cry clubs for prentises.

 Hod.

How, my hearts touch her Hamon? yea and more than that, wéele carry her away with vs. My maisters and gentlemen, neuer draw your bird spittes, shooemakers are steele to the backe, men euery inch of them, al spirite.

 All of Hamons side

Wel, and what of all this?

 Hodge

Ile shew you: Iane, dost thou know this man? tis Rafe I can tell thee: nay, tis he in faith, though he be lamde by the warres, yet looke not strange, but run to him, fold him about the necke and kisse him.

 Iane Liues then my husband? oh God let me go, Let me embrace my Rafe. Hamon

What meanes my Iane?

 Iane

Nay, what meant yon to tell me he was slaine?

 Ham. Pardon me deare loue for being misled, Twas rumord here in London thou wert dead. Firke

Thou séest he liues: Lasse, goe packe home with him: now M. Hamon, wheres your mistris your wife?

 Seru.

Swounds M. fight for her, will you thus lose her?

 All

Downe with that creature, clubs, downe with him.

 Hodge

Hold, hold.

 Ham. Hold foole, sirs he shal do no wrong, Wil my Iane leaue me thus, and breake her faith? Firke

Yea sir, she must sir, she shal sir, what then? mend it.

 Hodge

Hearke fellow Rafe, folowe my counsel, set the wench in the midst, and let her chuse her man, and let her be his woman.

 Iane Whom should I choose? whom should my thoughts affect? But him whom heauen hath made to be my loue, Thou art my husband and these humble wéedes, Makes thée more beautiful then all his wealth, Therefore I wil but put off his attire, Returning it into the owners hand, And after euer be thy constant wife. Hodge.

Not a ragge Iane, the law's on our side, he that sowes in another mans ground forsets his haruest, get thée home Rafe, follow him Iane, he shall not haue so much as a buske point from thée.

 Firke

Stand to that Rafe, the appurtenances are thine owne, Hammon, looke not at her.

 Seru.

O swounds no.

 Firke

Blew coate be quiet, wéele giue you a new liuerie else, wéele make Shroue Tuesday Saint Georges day for you: looke not Hammon, leare not, Ile Firke you, for thy head now, one glance, one shéepes eie, any thing at her, touch not a ragge, least I and my brethren beate you to clowtes.

 S.

Come master Hammon, theres no striuing here.

 Ham. Good fellowes, heare me speake: and honest Rafe, Whom I haue iniured most by louing Iane, Marke what I offer thée: here in faire gold Is twentie pound, Ile giue it for thy Iane, If this content thée not, thou shalt haue more. Hodge.

Sell not thy wife Rafe, make her not a whore.

 Ham. Say, wilt thou fréely cease thy claime in her, And let her be my wife? All

No, do not Rafe.

 Rafe

Sirra Hammon Hammon, dost thou thinke a Shooe-maker is so base, to bee a bawde to his owne wife for commoditie, take thy golde, choake with it, were I not lame, I would make thée eate thy words.

 Firke

A shoomaker sell his flesh and bloud, oh indignitie!

 Hod.

Sirra, take vp your pelfe, and be packing.

 Ham I will not touch one pennie, but in liew Of that great wrong I offered thy Iane, To Iane and thée I giue that twentie pound, Since I haue faild of her, during my life I vow no woman else shall be my wife: Farewell good fellowes of the Gentle trade, Your mornings mirth my mourning day hath made. exeunt Firke

Touch the gold creature if you dare, ya're best be trudging: here Iane take thou it, now lets home my hearts.

 Hod.

Stay, who comes here? Iane, on againe with thy maske.

 Enter Lincolne, L. Maior, and seruants. Linc.

Yonders the lying varlet mockt vs so.

 L. Ma.

Come hither sirra.

 Firke.

I sir, I am sirra, you meane me, do you not?

 Linc.

Where is my Nephew married?

 Firke

Is he married? God giue him ioy, I am glad of it: they haue a faire day, and the signe is in a good planet, Mars in Venus.

 L. Ma Villaine, thou toldst, me that my daughter Rose, This morning should be married at Saint Faithes, We haue watcht there these thrée houres at the least, Yet sée we no such thing. Firke

Truly I am sorie for't, a Bride's a prettie thing.

 Hodge

Come to the purpose, yonder's the Bride and Bridegroome you looke for I hope: though you be Lordes, you are not to barre, by your authoritie, men from women, are you?

 L. Ma

Sée sée my daughters maskt.

 Linc. True, and my Nephew. To hide his guilt, counterfeits him lame. Firke

Yea truely god helpe the poore couple, they are lame and blind.

 L. Maior

Ile ease her blindnes.

 Lin.

Ile his lamenes cure.

 Firke

Lie downe sirs, and laugh, my felow Rafe is taken for Rowland Lacy, and Iane for mistris damaske rose, this is al my knauery.

 L. Maior

What, haue I found you minion?

 Linc. O base wretch, Nay hide thy face, the horror of thy guilt, Can hardly be washt off: where are thy powers? What vattels haue you made? O yes I see Thou foughtst with Shame, and shame hath conquerd thée. This lamenesse wil not serue. L. Ma.

Unmaske your selfe.

 Lin.

Leade home your daughter.

 L. Ma.

Take your Nephew hence.

 Rafe.

Hence, swounds, what meane you? are you mad? I hope you cannot inforce my wife from me, wheres Hamon?

 L. Ma.

Your wife.

 Lin.

What Hammon?

 Rafe

Yea my wife, and therfore the prowdest of you that laies hands on her first, Ile lay my crutch crosse his pate.

 Firke

To him lame Rafe, heres braue sport.

 Rafe

Rose call you her? why her name is Iane, looke here else, do you know her now?

 Lin.

Is this your daughter?

 L. Ma. No, nor this your nephew: My Lord of Lincolne, we are both abusde By this base craftie varlet. Firk

Yea forsooth no varlet, forsooth no base, forsooth I am but meane, no crattie neither, but of the Gentle Craft.

 L. Ma.

Where is my daughter Rose? where is my child?

 Lin.

Where is my nephew Lacie married?

 Firke

Why here is good laide mutton as I promist you.

 Lin.

Villaine, Ile haue thée punisht for this wrong.

 Firke

Punish the iornyman villaine, but not the iorneyman shoomaker. Enter Dodger.

Dodger. My Lord I come to bring vnwelcome newes, Your Nephew Lacie, and your daughter Rose, Earely this morning wedded at the Sauoy, None being present but the Ladie Mairesse: Besides I learnt among the officers, The Lord Maior vowes to stand in their defence, Gainst any that shal seeke to crosse the match. Lin.

Dares Eyre the shoomaker vphold the deede?

 Firk

Yes sir, shoomakers dare stand in a womans quarrel I warrant you, as deepe as another, and deeper too.

 Dod. Besides, his grace, to day dines with the Maior, Who on his knées humbly intends to fall, And beg a pardon for your Nephewes fault. Lin. But Ile preuent him come sir Roger Oteley, The king wil doe vs iustice in this cause, How ere their hands haue made them man and wife, I wil disioyne the match, or loose my life. exeunt. Firke

Adue monsieur Dodger, farewel fooles, ha ha, Oh if they had staide I would haue so lambde them with •• outes, O heart, my codpéece point is readie to flie in péeces euery time I thinke vpon mistris Rose, but let that passe, as my Ladie Mairesse saies.

 Hodge

This matter is answerd: come Rafe, home with thy wife, come my fine shoomakers, lets to our masters the new lord Maior and there swagger this shroue Tuesday, ile promise you wine enough, for Madge kéepes the seller.

 All

O rare! Madge is a good wench.

 Firke

And Ile promise you meate enough, for simpring Susan kéepes the larder, Ile leade you to victuals my braue souldiers, follow your captaine, O braue, hearke, hearke.

 Bell ringes. All

The Pancake bell rings, the pancake bel, tri-lill my hearts.

 Firke

Oh braue, oh swéete bell, O delicate pancakes, open the doores my hearts, and shut vp the windowes, kéepe in the house, let out the pancakes: oh rare my heartes, lets march together for the honor of saint Hugh to the great new hall in Gratious streete corner, which our Maister the newe lord Maior hath built.

 Rafe

O the crew of good fellows that wil dine at my lord, Maiors cost to day!

 Hodge

By the lord, my lord Maior is a most braue man, how shal prentises be bound to pray for him, and the honour of the gentlemen shoomakers? lets feede and be fat with my lordes bountye.

 Fir.

O musical be stil! O Hodge, O my brethren! theres chéere for the heauens, venson pastimes walke vp and down piping hote, like sergeants, beefe and brewesse comes marching in drie fattes, fritters and pancakes comes trowling in in whéele barrowes, hennes and orenges hopping in porters baskets, colloppes and egges in scuttles, and tartes and custardes comes quauering in in mault shouels.

 Enter more prentises. All

Whoop, looke here, looke here.

 Hodge

How now madde laddes, whither away so fast?

 I. Pren.

Whither, why to the great new hall, know you not why? The lorde Maior hath bidden all the prentises in London to breakfast this morning.

 All

Oh braue shoomaker, oh braue lord of incomprehensible good fellowship, whoo, hearke you, the pancake bell rings. Cast vp caps.

Firke

Nay more my hearts, euery Shrouetuesday is our yéere of Jubile: and when the pancake bel rings, we are as free as my lord Maior, we may shut vp our shops, and make holiday: Ile haue it calld, Saint Hughes Holiday.

 All

Agreed, agreed, Saint Hughes Holiday.

Hodge

And this shal continue for euer.

 All

Oh braue! come come my hearts, away, away.

 Firke

O eternall credite to vs of the gentle Craft, march faire my hearts, oh rare. exeunt.

Enter King and his traine ouer the stage. King

Is our lord Maior of London such a gallant?

 Noble man One of the merriest madcaps in your land, Your Grace wil thinke, when you behold the man, Hées rather a wilde ruffin than a Maior: Yet thus much Ile ensure your maiestie, In al his actions that concerne his state, He is as serious, prouident, and wise, As full of grauitie amongst the graue, As any maior hath beene these many yeares. King I am with child til I behold this halfe cap, But all my doubt is, when we come in presence, His madnesse will be dasht cleane out of countenance. Noble man

It may be so, my Liege.

 King Which to preuent, Let some one giue him notice, tis our pleasure, That he put on his woonted merriment: Set forward. All

On afore. exeunt.

Enter Ayre Hodge, Firke, Rafe, and other shoemakers, all with napkins on their shoulders. Eyre

Come my fine Hodge, my iolly gentlemen shooemakers, soft, where be these Caniballes, these varlets my officers, let them al walke and waite vpon my brethren, for my meaning is, that none but shoomakers, none but the liuery of my Company shall in their sattin hoodes waite vppon the trencher of my soueraigne.

 Firke

O my Lord, it will be rare.

 Ayre

No more Firke, come liuely, let your fellowe prentises want no cheere, let wine be plentiful as béere, and beere as water, hang these penny pinching fathers, that cramme wealth in innocent lamb skinnes, rip knaues, anaunt, looke to my guests

 Hodge

My Lord, we are at our wits end for roome, those hundred tables wil not feast the fourth part of them.

 Ayre

Then couer me those hundred tables againe, and againe, til all my iolly prentises be feasted: auoyde Hodge, runne Rafe, friske about my numble Firke, carowse me fadome healths to the honor of the shoomakers: do they drink liuely Hodge? do they tickle it Firke?

 Firke

Tickle it? some of them haue taken their licour standing so long, that they can stand no longer: but for meate, they would eate it and they had it.

 Ayre

Want they meate? wheres this swag-belly, this greasie kitchinstuffe cooke, call the varlet to me: want meat! Firke, Hodge, lame Rafe, runne my tall men, beleager the shambles, beggar al East-Cheape, serue me whole oxen in chargers, and let sheepe whine vpon the tables like pigges for want of good felowes to eate them. Want meate! vanish Firke, auaunt Hodge.

 Hodge

Your lordship mistakes my man Firke, he means their bellies want meate, not the boords, for they haue drunk so much they can eate nothing.

 Eneer hans, Rose, and Wife. Wife

Where is my Lord.

 Ayre

How now lady Madgy.

 Wife

The kings most excelent maiesty is new come, hée sends me for thy honor: one of his most worshipful Péeres, bade me tel thou must be mery, and so forth: but let that passe.

 Eyre

Is my Soueraigne come? vanish my tall shoomakers, my nimble brethren, looke to my guests the prentises: yet stay a little, how now Hans, how lookes my little Rose?

 Hans Let me request you to remember me, I know your honour easily may obtaine, Frée pardon of the king for me and Rose, And reconcile me to my vncles grace. Eyre

Haue done my good Hans, my honest iorneyman, looke chéerely, Ile fall vpon both my knees till they be as hard as horne, but Ile get thy pardon.

 Wife

Good my Lord haue a care what you speake to his grace.

 Eyre

Away you I slington whitepot, hence you happerarse, you barly pudding ful of magots, you broyld carbonado, auaunt, auaunt, auoide Mephostophilus: shall Sim Eyre leaue to speake of you Ladie Madgie? vanish mother Miniuer cap, vanish, goe, trip and goe, meddle with your partlets, and your pishery pasherie, your flewes and your whirligigs, go, rub, out of mine alley: Sim Eyre knowes how to speake to a Pope, to Sultan Soliman, to Tamburlaine and he were here: and shal I melt? shal I droope before my Soueraigne? no, come my Ladie Madgie, follow me Hauns, about your businesse my frolicke frée-booters: Firke, friske about, and about, and about, for the honour of mad Simon Eyre Lord Maior of London.

 Firke

Hey for the honour of the shoomakers. exeunt.

A long flourish or two: enter King, Nobles, Eyre, his wife, Lacie, Rose: Lacie and Rose kneele. King Well Lacie though the fact was verie foule, Of your renolting from our kingly loue, And your owne duetie, yet we pardon you, Rise both, and mistris Lacie, thanke my Lord Maior For your yong bridegroome here. Eyre

So my déere liege, Sim Eyre and my brethren the gentlemen shoomakers shal set your swéete maiesties image, cheeke by iowle by Saint Hugh, for this honour you haue done poore Simon Eyre, I beséeth your grace pardon my rude behauiour, I am a handicrafts man, yet my heart is without craft, I would be sory at my soule, that my boldnesse should offend my king.

 King

Nay, I pray thée good lord Maior, be euen as mery as if thou wert among thy shoomakers, It does me good to see thee in this humour.

 Eyre

Saist thou me so my swéete Dioclesian? then hump, Prince am I none, yet am I princely borne, by the Lord of Ludgate my Liege, Ile be as merrie as a pie.

 King

Tel me infaith mad Eyre, how old thou art.

 Eyre

My Liege a verie boy, a stripling, a yonker, you sée not a white haire on my head, not a gray in this beard, euerie haire I assure thy maiestie that stickes in this beard, Sim Eyre values at the king of Babilons ransome, Tama Chams beard was a rubbing brush toot: yet Ile shaue it off, and stuffe tennis balls with it to please my bully king.

 King

But all this while I do not know your age.

 Eyre

My liege, I am sixe and fiftie yeare olde, yet I can crie humpe, with a sound heart for the honour of Saint Hugh: marke this olde wench, my king, I dauncde the shaking of the sheetes with her sixe and thirtie yeares agoe, and yet I hope to get two or three yong Lorde Maiors ere I die: I am lustie still, Sim Eyre still: care, and colde lodging brings white haires. My swéete Maiestie, let care vanish, cast it vppon thy Nobles, it will make thée looke alwayes young like Apollo, and crye humpe: Prince am I none, yet am I princely borne.

 King

Ha ha: saye Cornewall, didst thou euer sée his like?

 Noble man

Not I, my Lorde.

 Enter Lincolne, and Lord Maior. King

Lincolne, what newes with you?

 Linc. My gracious Lord, haue care vnto your selfe, For there are traytors here. All

Traytors, where? who?

 Eyre

Traitors in my house? God forbid, where be my officers? Ile spend my soule ere my king féele harme.

 King

Where is the traytor? Lincolne.

 Linc.

Here he stands.

 King Cornewall, lay hold on Lacie: Lincolne, speake: What canst thou lay vnto thy Nephewes charge? Linc. This my deere liege: your grace to doe me honour, Heapt on the head of this degenerous boy, Desertlesse fauours, you made choise of him, To be commander ouer powers in France, But he. King Good Lincolne pry thée pawse a while, Euen in thine eies I reade what thou wouldst speake, I know how Lacie did neglect our loue, Ranne himselfe déepely (in the highest degrée) Into vile treason. Linc.

Is he not a traytor?

 King Lincolne, he was: now haue we pardned him, Twas not a base want of true valors fire, That held him out of France, but loues desire. Linc.

I wil not beare his shame vpon my backe.

 King

Nor shalt thou Lincolne, I forgive you both.

 Lin Then (good my liege) forbid the boy to wed One, whose meane birth will much disgrace his bed. King

Are they not married?

 Linc.

No my Liege.

 Both

We are.

 King Shall I divorce them then? O be it farre, That any hand on earth should dare vntie, The sacred knot knit by Gods maiestie, I would not for my crowne disioyne their hands, That are conioynd in holy nuptiall bands, How saist thou Lacy? wouldst thou loose thy Rose? Hans

Not for all Indians wealth, my soueraigne.

 King

But Rose I am sure her Lacie would forgoe.

 Rose

If Rose were askt that question, sheed say, no.

 King

You heare them Lincolne.

 Linc

Yea my liege, I do.

 King Yet canst thou find ith heart to part these two? Who séeks, besides you, to diuorce these louers? L. Ma.

I do (my gracious Lord) I am her father.

 King

Sir Roger Oteley, our last Maior I thinke,

 Nob

The same my liege.

 King Would you offend Loues lawes? Wel, you shal haue your wills, you sue to me, To prohibite the match: Soft, let me sée, You both are married, Lacie, art thou not? Hans

I am, dread Soueraigne.

 King Then vpon thy life, I charge thée, not to call this woman wife. L. Ma.

I thanke your grace.

 Rose

O my most gratious Lord!

kneele King Nay Rose, neuer wooe me, I tel you true, Although as yet I am a batchellor, Yet I beléèue I shal not marry you. Rose Can you diuide the body from the soule, Yet make the body liue? King Yea, so profound? I cannot Rose, but you I must diuide: Faire maide, this bridegroome cannot be your bride. Are you pleasde Lincolne? Oteley, are you pleasde? Both

Yes my Lord.

 King Then must my heart be easde, For credit me, my conscience liues in paine, Til these whom I deuorcde be ioyned againe: Lacy, giue me thy hand, Rose, lend me thine. Be what you would be: kisse now: so, thats fine, At night (louers) to bed: now let me sée, Which of you all mislikes this harmony? L. Ma.

Wil you then take from me my child perforce?

 King Why tell me Oteley, shines not Lacies name, As bright in the worldes eye, as the gay beames Of any citizen? Linc. Yea but my gratious Lord, I do mislike the match farre more than he, Her bloud is too too base. King Lincolne, no more, Dost thou not know, that loue respects no bloud? Cares not for difference of birth, or state, The maide is yong, wel borne, faire, vertuous, A worthy bride for any gentleman: Besides, your nephew for her sake did stoope To bare necessitie: and as I heare, Forgetting honors, and all courtly pleasures, To gaine her loue, became a shooemaker. As for the honor which he lost in France, Thus I redéeme it: Lacie, knéele thée downe, Arise sir Rowland Lacie: tell me now, Tell me in earnest Oteley, canst thou chide? Séeing thy Rose a ladie and a bryde. Lord Maior.

I am content with what your Grace hath done.

 Linc.

And I my liege, since theres no remedie.

 King Come on then, at shake hands, Ile haue you frends, Where there is much loue, all discord ends, What sayes my mad Lord Maior to all this loue? Eyre

O my liege, this honour you haue done to my fine iourneyman here, Rowland Lacie, and all these fauours which you have showne to me this daye in my poore house, will make Simon Eyre liue longer by one dozen of warme summers more then he should.

 King Nay, my mad Lord Maior (that shall be thy name) If any grace of mine can length thy life, One honour more Ile doe thee, that new building, Which at thy cost in Cornehill is erected, Shall take a name from vs, wéele haue it cald, The Leaden hall, because in digging it, You found the lead that couereth the same. Eyre

I thanke your Maiestie.

 Wife

God blesse your Grace.

 King

Lincolne, a word with you.

 Enter Hodge, Firke, Rafe, and more shoomakers. Eyre

How now my mad knaues? Peace, speake softly, yonder is the king.

 King With the olde troupe which there we kéepe in pay, We wil incorporate a new supply: Before one summer more passe ore my head, France shal repent England was iniured. What are all those? Hans All shoomakers, my Liege, Sometimes my fellowes, in their companies I siude as merry as an empror. King

My mad lord Mayor, are all these shoomakers?

 Eyre

All Shooemakers, my Liege, all gentlemen of the Gentle Craft, true Troians, couragious Cordwainers, they all knéele to the shrine of holy saint Hugh.

 All

God saue your maiesty all shoomakers

 King

Mad Simon, would they any thing with vs?

 Eyre

Mum mad knaues, not a word, Ile doot, I warrant you. They are all beggars, my Liege, all for themselues: and I for them all, on both my knées do intreate, that for the honor of poore Simon Eyre, and the good of his brethren these mad knaues, your Grace would vouchsafe some priuilege to my new Leden hall, that it may be lawfull for vs to buy and sell leather there two dayes a wéeke.

 King Mad Sim, I grant your suite, you shall haue patent To hold two market dayes in Leden hall, Mondayes and Fridayes, those shal be the times: Will this content you? All

Iesus blesse your Grace.

 Eyre

In the name of these my poore brethren shoomakers, I most humbly thanke your Grace. But before I rise, séeing you are in the Giuing vaine, and we in the Begging, graunt Sim Eyre one boone more.

 King

What is it my Lord Maior?

 Eyre

Vouchsafe to taste of a poore banquet that standes swéetely waiting for your sweete presence.

 King I shall vndo thee Eyre, only with feasts, Already haue I béene too troublesome, Say, haue I not? Eyre

O my deere king, Sim Eyre was taken vnawares vpon a day of shrouing which I promist long ago to the pren tises of London: for andt please your Highnes, in time past

I bare the water tanker 〈◊〉 my coate Sits not a whit the world 〈◊〉 my backe: And then vpon a morning some mad boyes, It was Shrouetuesday éeune as tis now,

Gaue me my breakefast, and I swore then by the stopple of my tankerd, if euer I came to be Lord Maior of London, I would feast al the prentises, This day (my liege) I did it, and the slaues had an hundred tables fiue times couered, they are gone home and vanisht: yet adde more honour to the Gentle Trade, taste of Eyres banquet, Simon's happie made.

 King Eyre, I wil taste of thy banquet, and wil say, I haue not met more pleasure on a day, Friends of the Gentle Craft, thankes to you al, Thankes my kind Ladie Mairesse for our théere, Come Lordes, a white lets reuel it at home, When all our sports, and banquetings are dome, Warres most right wrongs which frenchmen haue begun. Exeunt. FINIS.